


Sheba

by cincoflex



Series: Casa Caliente [11]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: F/M, Male Strippers, Road Trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 07:32:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16929111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: Sara and Grissom solve a murder in a strange little Nevada town.





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

 

He was fussing over her again.

He knew it, could tell by the way she bit back an impatient sigh and refrained from rolling her eyes, but Grissom felt helpless to stop. For the past few years he’d wanted to do just this sort of thing: coddle; cosset; comfort; cradle; caress, in a word, CARE for Sara. Now that the opportunity was here he was cramming as much personal attention as he possibly could into it, and even while he tried to look repentant, his inward glee grew.

Blanket; cup of green tea; latest FBI Forensic journal; television remote; Kleenex, heating pad, slippers . . . moving swiftly, Grissom scooped up Figaro as the final touch, and gently piled him in Sara’s lap, then stood back for a moment, looking at the completed tableaux. Sara and Figaro blinked at each other, Sara in amusement, Figaro in bewilderment. He twitched his whiskers, and then settled in on her lap, keeping one eye on Grissom in his ongoing kitty threat assessment mode.

“This is a little . . . overkill, don’t you think?” Sara finally murmured as she stroked the cat’s back.

Grissom’s faint smile spoke before he did. “You’ve a rough time. You need succor.”

“Grissom, I had a bead up my nose, not a two by four. The swelling is down, mostly, and I’m ready to go back to work,” she replied, trying hard not to whine. Cabin fever was setting in after only three nights of wandering around the house trying to find ways to entertain herself. Her face was a little sore, but Doctor Fairchilde was very pleased with her progress, and the bead now hung on a strand of fishing filament on the kitchen curtain rod.

It was a pink crystal bead, and the moment Sara saw it, memories came flooding back: that little gem had once been part of a bracelet on her Cabbage Patch doll Libby Helene. Sara remembered the bracelet breaking after a hard tug of war with Tom over the doll, and the resulting smackdown when he’d threatened to flush it down the toilet. Somewhere in all the wrestling and fighting, one bead in particular must have gone up her nose, but she’d been too worked up about her brother’s taunts to even remember it.

“Monday. But only for lab work,” Grissom intoned. Sara looked distinctly rebellious, throwing a wadded up Kleenex at him. Figaro sprang for it, bringing down the dangerous tissue with only a few quick paw strikes; Sara and Grissom watched him lift his kill with triumph.

“I sleep safer, Figaro, knowing you’re defending me from sudden attacks by processed paper products,” Grissom solemnly told the cat.

Sara laughed, the sound rumbling up through her chest as she stood up from the sofa. “Come on, Grissom, don’t be a mother hen, all right? I know you’ve been concerned and I appreciate it, believe me, but I’m fine, I’m ready to get back to work.”

He hesitated. While he knew in his heart of hearts she truly was ready, Grissom didn’t want to relinquish this new caretaking role. Sara so rarely let him cater to her, preferring to keep her elegant independence. Initially he admired that, but as time passed, he found a quiet pleasure growing from the fun in indulging her.

“Lab work Monday. After that you’re back on rotation,” he reluctantly ceded. Sara stretched, letting her long arms reach up to the ceiling as her cropped black tee shirt rose to reveal her lean stomach. Grissom eyed it longingly.

“Speaking of rotation . . .” Sara let her voice drop into a more seductive timbre, “It’s been a while—are you at all—interested?”

Her meaning was unmistakable, and Grissom fought a swift pang of desire as he lifted his gaze to her whiskey-colored gaze. “It’s been six days, fifteen hours, give or take a few minutes either way, and oh yes.”

Sara’s eyes widened and she unsuccessfully bit back a giggle. “You kept count by the hours?”

“Yes.” Grissom admitted with a wide-eyed passion, as if this shouldn’t have surprised her in the least.

Sara felt heat roll up her face at the sight of his expression. She’d never get used to Grissom’s intensity at times, his sheer . . . lust. Nature had built him big and endowed him with strong, relentless hormones, but only now was Grissom comfortable letting himself enjoy the sheer physical joy of love.

“Then maybe we ought to—reset the timer, as it were,” Sara suggested.

Grissom reached for her and hesitated halfway through. Sara could sense the worries flickering through him and took in a deep breath. She cupped his hand and laid it on her stomach, shivering pleasurably.

“I think I could handle everything but nasal intercourse,” she sweetly teased him. Grissom lifted his gaze from her chest to her eyes, one eyebrow arching up, his lips twisting into a reluctant smile.

“So the nose job is out?” he shot back.

Sara laughed.

“I wanted one when I was younger,” she admitted, taking his hand and leading him through the kitchen. Grissom followed her, letting his touch shift to hold her hand. Sara opened the kitchen door and out into the back yard. They’d bought a few things for out here, making it look a bit more inviting for all its seclusion. The shade of the big cottonwood tree stretched out over the lawn, and the smell of sun-warmed grass hung in the air of the late afternoon.

“Why? Your nose is fine. Cute,” Grissom pointed out.

Sara let go of his hand, her smile deep enough to show her dimples. “Because in seventh grade, Lisa Ranadoor told me I needed bigger boobs and a smaller nose if I ever wanted a boy to French kiss me. At the time, I was coping with a lot of hormones and this growth spurt that had me towering over about ninety percent of my classmates, Grissom. Since I couldn’t get my legs shortened, I hassled my parents about getting my schnozz bobbed. It didn’t happen, of course.”

“You didn’t need it—you have a perfect nose, and as for height, everyone else would catch up eventually,” he assured her, oddly moved by her admission.

“Sure, _now_. Back then though, all I wanted was to be someone other than me. Now you tell ME something embarrassing.”

Grissom sighed, his gaze dropping to the grass. After a moment, he spoke in a faintly strained voice. “I used to have this fantasy . . .” he began, moving closer to her. 

Sara grinned. “Yes?”

“About you in . . . a jumpsuit.” His face had gone slightly red, and Sara sensed true embarrassment. She made an encouraging noise, and Grissom blinked before continuing. “The blue ones at work, the garage ones. The first time I saw you in one, with your goggles on, and your hair tied back, I just got this peculiar belief that under it, you were . . .”

“—Naked. Grissom!” she chortled, utterly delighted at this unexpected honesty. “You know that would never happen.”

“I did mention it was a fantasy, didn’t I?” he replied grudgingly. 

Sara softened and nodded. She moved into his arms and cuddled against his chest, whispering, “Okay, yeah. So—go on—"

“So that’s it.”

“You just thought I was naked underneath every time I had a jumpsuit on?”

“I pretended it,” he amended, whispering into her hair. “I’d go home and uh, concentrate on it.”

“Mmmmm . . .” the joyous tingles of arousal and affection flooded Sara at this image. There was something magnificently endearing about knowing that she’d been a part of Grissom’s sexual fantasies. Slowly she slid his hands under her shirt, guiding them up until they cupped her chest, her nipples pressing hard into the centers of his palms.

“Tell you what—we can smuggle a coverall home sometime and we’ll play the Lady Mechanic and the Oil Change Customer.”

Grissom pondered this, changing focus only when Sara reached down and peeled her black tee shirt off, pulling it over her head and tossing it aside onto the grass. He swallowed, excitement racing through his system at the sight of her sweet collarbones and his own, big hands on her elegant chest. Sara half-dressed was unbearably arousing, and he stifled a moan. She raised her arms up again, crossing them on top of her head.

“In the meantime . . .” Sara swallowed hard herself, aching for his touch. 

Grissom gently stroked his thumbs over her hard nipples for a teasing moment, then led her down the brick steps towards the big hammock, which swayed invitingly on its frame under the cottonwood. 

“In the meantime, we make the most of an encounter al fresco,” Grissom decided in a low, firm voice. 

Sara crossed her arms over her bare chest and laughed. “You know when it comes to sex, you’ve got this furniture fetish, Grissom. I for one would be perfectly happy to roll on the grass with you and get closer to nature THAT way—"

“Grass stains, grass allergies, hard on the knees . . .” he countered, straddling the hammock and tugging Sara down with him. The hemp creaked a little, the springs stretching a little, but the soft sway of sun-warmed cotton mesh felt wonderful. Somewhere far off, someone’s lawn mower droned in the lazy afternoon. Sara sat astride Grissom’s thighs and began unbuttoning his shirt. He watched her, blue eyes following her long fingers.

“Touch. You’ve always had amazing touch, Sara. Extremely fine motor skills and sensitivity. It was something I noticed about you early on.”

“Un huh—part of your fantasies too?”

“Absolutely. I’m not given to tactility myself, but something about the way you . . . handle things . . .”  
he trailed off; Sara’s fingers had reached the last button of his shirt and were now opening it to expose his chest. Slowly, she splayed her fingers across his broad pectoral muscles, feeling his heartbeat, strong and a little quick. The hammock swayed a little, and Sara felt her toes drag across the grass on either side. She looked at Grissom, drinking in his features as he lay back and sighed with pleasure.

“You wake my skin up, and then you warm it up,” he told her with a smile, catching one of her hands in his, and kissing it. 

Sara tossed the hair out of her eyes and let her gaze travel down his torso, her fingers following, pushing the shirt out of the way. “I like to touch you. I couldn’t do it for so long that now that I can, I’m making up for lost time. You have great shoulders, and I swear to God your nipples are more sensitive than mine.”

“Possibly,” he admitted. “I’ve never had anyone interested in them before.”

Sara shot him a look through her lashes, then bent her head to bring her lips down onto the right one, teeth ever so lightly closing on the hard little stub. Grissom’s neck arched instantly, and his hands slid around her bare shoulders. She laughed against his flesh.

“Sensivive arn eu?”

“Yesss.” Came his rough hiss. The warm swipe of her tongue had him trembling, and as she kissed her way to the other nipple, he stroked her nape with one shaky hand. Sara wriggled her hips, finding a heavy ridge rising against the fly of his slacks. She toyed with the hard brown rivet under her lips, flicking it with her tongue, enjoying Grissom’s shivers. After a tormenting him a moment longer, she pressed her breasts against his bare chest and shifted her lips to his jawline, tasting his salty skin.  
“I’ve heard that some guys have nipples so sensitive they can come just from having them teased—“ she whispered.

Grissom didn’t turn his head or open his eyes, but he smiled. “I’d rather not put that to the test," he told her. Grissom was working his hands down Sara’s bare back, sliding under her sweatpants determinedly as she laughed again, a little breathlessly this time.

“Hey!”

“I want to see you in the light, Acushla. With the sun dappling your skin.”

Sara pushed her way up and gave a little frown. The light was already picking up the auburn highlights in her hair, and bringing out her freckles; Grissom admired them.

“Only if you do the same.”

He hesitated a moment, then gave a slow nod, reaching for his belt. Within a few minutes the rest of their clothes were in a crumpled heap under the hammock, and both of them were facing each other, naked, staring with mingled amusement and awkwardness. Sara shook her head slowly, willing herself not to cross her arms over her chest.

“Anyone looking at us would KNOW we work the nightshift,” she observed, noting how the sunlight picked up the iron of Grissom’s beard, and soft darker hair in lying graceful calligraphy over his arms and thighs.

He gave a nod of agreement. “I never knew you had so many freckles, Sara. Or how aesthetically pleasing they are, blending in a sort of erotic pointillism all along your body . . .” he remarked, reaching out to touch her shoulder.

Sara ducked her head shyly, her hands sliding on his thighs, and from the moment of contact, both of them relaxed. She shifted closer, hands curling around the thick shaft rising up between their intertwined legs.

“Verrrry nice," Sara grinned, letting her fingertips trace the web of veins standing in relief around the smooth warm heft of his cock. Grissom glanced down, and a hooded look crossed his face; the intimate expression of a man both vulnerable and aroused. He said nothing, but guided her hand to a tighter grip around the thick diameter. Sara caressed the warm suede of his erection, feeling hot and excited by the power of Grissom’s grip around hers.

She shot him a wide-eyed look. “Would you do it? For me?”

Her meaning dawned on him, and a blush crossed his features; he blinked rapidly. “I’d rather do it TO you, Sara,” he quipped, ”Or at the very least, WITH you.”

She reluctantly let go and ran her hands along his wrists as she leaned forward a little, breathing into his face, seeing the lines and muscles and curves there so clearly now, the dark long eyelashes and crystalline blue of his eyes in the golden light of the afternoon.

“Just once . . .” she whispered, “Show me how you make yourself come, Gil. I’ll never ask again, but I want to see it this one time . . .”

Grissom opened his mouth, but didn’t have a chance to say anything for a moment as Sara pressed her lips to his, tongue sliding against his own. His eyes fluttered shut, and he kissed her back with serious sensuality. Sara cupped his face, letting his beard tickle her palms as she pulled away, licked her lips and kissed him once more.

A long, slightly dizzy moment later, Grissom sighed slowly, lashes parting just enough for the laser blue of his gaze to make Sara squirm.“All right. If that’s what you want.”

“Yes!”

Grissom smiled crookedly at her enthusiasm, but shifted a little and leaned back in the hammock, propping his left arm behind his head, and letting his right hand stroke his chest. The sight of his bare shoulders, his silky underarm hair made her tingle.  
“It’s nowhere near as fascinating as watching you. Men are pretty utilitarian about this, Sara. One of the few things we’re efficient at.”

Her look was patient and hungry; Grissom realized she was perfectly serious and willing to let him set his own pace, so he cleared his throat and let his hand slide down his stomach.

“Practice makes perfect?” she teased. 

He gave a small, wry smirk. “A skill, but I doubt it’s on anyone’s resume.” Carefully he slid his hand down his abdomen and gently took himself in hand, fingers wrapping loosely around the girth. 

Sara stared.

“Like anything pleasurable it starts with the mind. Thoughts. Images. Fantasies . . ."

“Me in a jumpsuit,” Sara giggled. Grissom nodded, closing his eyes. Very carefully he brought the palm of his hand over the flat broad head of his cock, smearing it with the pearly precum there, then slid his strong fingers down the shaft, coating it lightly for a few minutes.

“You in a jumpsuit. One with . . . a broken zipper.”

Sara flushed, feeling a pang between her legs at the hungry sound of his voice. Sitting astride his thighs, just looking at Grissom lying back naked and relaxed, aroused her fiercely. She shifted, damply.

Without opening his eyes, Grissom laughed.  
“Stretching, crawling through some car marked for evidence, and unaware that the seam of that jumpsuit is coming open here and there, revealing tantalizing peeks of your bare skin under it, Sara . . “ he whispered.

She didn’t know what to do with her hands, and he took pity on her, opening one eye and smiling so sweetly his dimples showed.

“Care to join me?”

“Oh no--This is about YOU . . .” she reminded him in a voice she tried to keep under control, even while she wondered whether his comment was actually an invitation to touch herself.

Grissom gave a shrug and slowly stroked himself, his grip tighter, practiced and strong.

Her mouth dry, Sara watched Grissom’s hand caress his cock, the caress slow and definitely erotic.  
“So it is. At any rate, just being near you makes me quite hard, particularly in close quarters like a car. Being able to see flashes of your flat stomach and pretty breasts, wanting to slip my hand into the gap left by the broken zipper . . ."

Sara groaned. The husky heat in his voice, drifting in the warm afternoon sunshine intoxicated her senses. Under her she felt the strong muscles of his thighs tense. The air was rich with the scent of his musk, heavy and masculine. She slid her hands along his furry thighs. Grissom gave a grunt, but didn’t open his eyes, stroking for a few minutes longer in the quiet afternoon.

“And I SMELL you, Sara. Faint perfume, toothpaste and clean female pheromones, a blend that keeps me on edge whenever you’re near. I move closer to you just to breathe in that warm, enticing scent, and in my fantasy, you’re just before your period, sending out that extra temptation.”

Grissom’s voice dropped in pitch, and his hand gripped his cock more tightly, pumping the throbbing shaft in ruthless strokes now, thrusts so powerful that Sara shuddered.

“Then you spot something on the dome light, and as you stretch up to look at it, the entire seam splits. God! You’re inches from my face, Sara, naked from your throat to the sweet dark curls of your pussy, one glorious vision of sleek, semi-naked woman—" he groaned, and Sara dipped her face down, searing her lips against the heated head of his cock in a soft kiss. At the touch of her mouth, Grissom gave a strangled cry, his big body arching in the hammock as his orgasm erupted through him, geysering up and over his fist, white foamy ribbons bubbling like champagne tinged in musk.

Sara waited until the last splatters fell, then looked up at Grissom, who had finally opened his eyes his face flushed, but his gaze almost dreamy. She batted her eyes and he laughed at the sight of her with creamy droplets on her chin and throat.

“Messy,” she tried to sound light, but her entire body quivered, and the pulsing between her own thighs was driving her insane. Grissom reached for her, settling Sara down to straddle his thigh, one hand sliding with sensual grace between her legs, the other braced around her shoulders. Lazily he lapped at the smears on her face, then kissed her deeply as his fingers brushed the hot slick folds of her sex. Sara writhed, clutching his big thigh tightly between her own, tongue dueling his with lovely slurps and pressure.

Sara rocked, rubbing herself against his fingers, making the hammock creak as she tensed and flexed, seeking pressure and pleasure, losing herself in Grissom’s powerful kisses. Within minutes, her wriggles grew frantic, and she ground herself against his thigh as his fingers tugged very, very gently on her fur, spreading the hot slick folds of her sex to slide wetly on his skin.

She came, rocking hard on his thigh, riding out the shudders that wracked her long frame while Grissom sucked lightly on her tongue as he braced her against his broad chest. When she finally pulled her mouth from his, he cradled her head down against his neck. Sara felt his throbbing pulse under her cheek as she spun in the hazy afterglow of her orgasm, replete, glutted on pleasure.

Grissom rocked the two of them in the hammock for a while as the light shifted lower through the trees. When Sara moved to sit up he made a soft reluctant sound.

“We’re exposed,” she reminded him with a laugh in her voice. 

He sighed. “Yes, well it’s not my _first_ time in this back yard.”

“Grissom!” Sara pulled away with a broad grin. He gave a lazy chuckle and reached down for her sweatpants, using the bottom of one leg to wipe her chin.

“Sara, Sara--did I ever tell you about my aunt’s experiment on deterring coyotes?” he asked softly, “And MY contribution to the test?”

*** *** ***

_Sixteen-year-old Gil Grissom looked up from his Frosted Flakes and made a face. Across the table, Doreen Sullivan peered over the top of the newspaper and eyed him speculatively, her reading glasses magnifying her blue eyes. He was in pajama bottoms but bare-chested, still lanky but definitely beginning to fill out._

_Doreen shook her head. “Three cats this week, Gil. Mrs. Hayson’s Boston Terrier got chewed up as well. They’re getting bolder. I found footprints all around the rabbit hutch this morning.”_

_Grissom glanced out through the kitchen window to the back yard. The cheery thermometer just under the eaves, the one with the yellow Bisquick logo, already registered the heat at 86 even though it wasn’t yet eight in the morning. He thought for a moment, his spoon suspended halfway to his mouth._

_“Dry season. Their natural prey are moving on to cooler climes or dying off, so they’re looking for easier kill. We could set some poison bait if you want.”_

_He knew she wouldn’t, of course. Out of all the things Gil knew about his aunt, and there were many, her abiding love of all natural wildlife was fundamental. The rabbits were proof of that. The pantry had crickets and mice, the garage harbored a nest of tarantulas in one corner, and twice this summer Grissom had found his treehouse overrun with lizards._

_Strict as she might be with nephews, Doreen Sullivan was a marshmallow for animals, even coyotes._

_He shoveled in the cereal as she shook her head and turned a page of the newspaper. The sports section headlines were predicting more gold for Mark Spitz, and Grissom wished there were a pool nearby. Out here on Caliente Road it was nearly a forty minute bike ride to the nearest Seven Eleven, and the municipal pool was seven miles beyond that—not worth the heatstroke of getting there and back again._

_Doreen shot him a speculative look. “Gil, how’s your acne?”_

_He frowned at her, going pink around his ears; much as he loved Aunt Doreen, she just didn’t understand he wasn’t a kid now._

_His mother never just asked things anymore, not now that he was practically a man. Well, more of a man than he could actually tell her, but still. She knocked on the bathroom and bedroom doors nowadays, and didn’t check under his bed (he thanked God for that), and didn’t look at him funny when he shaved once a week. Mom was getting it._

_She understood._

_“Why?” he asked cautiously._

_Doreen looked out in the back yard. “Because I’m going to fill you up with soda pop, and I need to know if the sugar’s gonna make you break out. I’d use water, but I know you like that fizzy stuff much better.”_

_Grissom frowned, trying to find the catch. His aunt was a wily woman, brilliant in her own way, but not always forthcoming. This had something to do with coyotes, but he wasn’t sure what._

_He cocked his head. “It’s better,” he mumbled._

_Doreen cast a critical eye over his face and he glared back, waiting for the comment that was sure to come._

_“So it seems, but lord, you need a haircut, boy. More curls than Shirley Temple.”_

_There was no point in trying to explain to her that long hair let him blend in, that he’d look far more out of place with a crewcut. And blending in let him move through school unhindered, unbullied. Protective coloration should be a concept she’d understand, but didn’t, not when it came to high school._

_“The soda?” he asked, trying to steer her back to the subject. Then she frightened him._

_She smiled._

_Twenty minutes later, Grissom sat on the brick steps to the back yard, swigging a Coca-Cola and grimly eyeing the wide expanse before him. Part of his thoughts were busy calculating a rough diameter of the yard, estimating distance and putting it into numbers. The other part of his mind, the section preoccupied with the massive concept of personal dignity, was still protesting this plan of action his aunt had proposed._

_For a moment, he thought again of refusing, but the soda did taste good, and one way or another it was going to come out anyway. He glared over at the kitchen window._

_“Stop watching me! I’m drinking as fast as I can, and you better not be there when it’s TIME.”_

_“I just don’t want you to fade out before the whole perimeter is done, Gil. You need to last long enough to make the entire boundary you know.”_

_“I know, I KNOW,” he snapped back, his face red, and not from the heat of the day. He heard an amused snort from the kitchen window and chose to ignore it._

_More soda. He tried to relax, to think of something distracting. His new electron microscope, complete with four lens magnifications and thirty-six unmounted slides. His last trip to the beach before flying out here for the summer. Katie Everson’s tits . . . no, that thought was a little too dangerous a thought at the moment. Playing poker with Alex, catching dragonflies out by the curb, a pickup game of baseball down the  
street . . ._

_And the pressure began. Grissom winced, and chugged the rest of the soda. He wondered if the carbonation was absorbed before anything reached his bladder, and felt the rumbling surge of a burp rising up his throat. With utter satisfaction, he belched, loudly, grinning as the sound of it echoed in the yard around him with a sort of soul-satisfying resonance._

_“Gilbert Gordon Grissom!” Came the warning from the window. He laughed._

_“Excuse me,” he politely told the yard. Somewhere in the cottonwood, the chattering chide of a blue jay answered him. He heard the door open behind him, and the clink of another bottle of soda as his aunt stepped out and set it down next to the empty one to his hip._

_“I’ve never understood why the bottles are so . . . curvy. A bottle should look like a bottle, not like some . . .” Doreen muttered, glancing down at the offending Coke. Grissom picked it up, flashing a grin at her._

_“Part of it is marketing and part of it is ergonomics. This shape fits into the human palm better.” He loftily told her before taking a huge sip. Doreen gave him a crooked smile._

_“Pace yourself, boy. It’s a big yard.”_

_“The average male bladder’s capacity is seven to thirteen ounces. Each soda is about twelve ounces. Three sodas will be enough," he calculated, absently caressing the curves of the light green bottle in his hand. Curves, yeah—he was noticing those these days. Doreen shaded her eyes and made a scoffing sound._

_“Fine. I’m off to Henderson’s market then. Do you need anything?”_

_“Oreos?”_

_“Fair enough.”_

_After he heard the car pull out of the driveway he relaxed a bit, and stood up, wandering to the pyracantha bushes that grew near the side of the house. The hedge extended a good eight feet on this side, low and scraggly. Grissom unzipped the fly of his jeans and gave a self-conscious smirk._

_“With this urine, I thee mark, for this is MY territory, coyotes beware!” he intoned dramatically._

_The bush was supremely unimpressed with this rhetoric, and Grissom sighed. Carefully he doused it, and began pacing along the length of the hedge, conscientiously spattering the remains of his first coke in his wake, feeling both incredibly self-conscious and amused. Taking a leak outside was nothing new, but having it sanctioned in the name of science, well, that had to be a first. He’d nearly reached the cottonwood when he realized he’d left his soda back on the brick steps. With a groan he zipped up and returned to collect his fuel, swigging it and burping again, this time skyward._

_Grissom hefted the bottle, thinking idly that it would be a good murder weapon; the weight was ideal for smacking on a cranium, and you could always shatter it later, destroying the evidence . . . he slowly walked back to the cottonwood, pondering the problem, unzipping again with one hand._

_Twenty minutes later, he came to a full appreciation of just how big the damn yard was, and wishing he could have talked aunt Doreen into letting him have beer instead. THAT would have been through his system a hell of a lot faster, and the light buzz would have cut down on his inhibitions. Currently he was pushing his limit in terms of output, but the last of his offerings just reached the corner, and he sighed with a relief much more emotional than physical, breathing deeply._

_Mission accomplished, thank God._

_“Okay, you can put away the magic firehose, now Gil."_

_“Jesus!” He started violently, glancing over his shoulder as Doreen stood in the doorway, a bag of Oreos in one hand, a wry grin on her face. Grissom flushed brick red, hurriedly stuffing himself back into his jeans._

_Doreen hooted, her shoulders shaking. “Oh stop it, young man. You’d think I’d never caught a fella taking a leak before. I may be a spinster, but I’ve seen my fair share of willies.”_

_“That, I do NOT want to know!” Grissom rumbled, wishing his supernova of blushes would die down. He grudgingly took the bag of cookies from her as she strode over to him. Quietly she laid a hand on his shoulder, and for the first time, Grissom realized she had to reach up to do it._

_“Sorry, Gil. That was downright mean of me, considering I put you up to this. But your manly contribution IS going to keep them out. The turf’s marked, my bunnies are safe . . .” Doreen opened the Oreos bag to take one out, “And when I’m dead and gone, you can lollygag out here buck naked for all it matters.”_

_Grissom tried to stay annoyed, but looking down into his aunt’s snapping blue eyes made it impossible, and he grinned widely at her comment. He waved a cookie at her impishly._

_“You know what? I will, too.”_

*** *** ***

“And as you can see, it’s come to pass.”

“Umm. Did the scent barrier work?” Sara asked, her smile muffled against his bare chest. It was getting cooler now, and really, she knew they should head on in, but it felt good just to lie here, bare skin touching. 

Grissom kissed the top of her head. “Yep. Still does. You don’t think I load up on water before mowing the lawn just to avoid heat stroke do you?”

“Grissom!”

The sound of Sara’s bubbly laugh drifted over the gathering twilight, echoing on the breeze as the first streetlights came on, and far off in the distance hills, the faint lonely yip of a coyote answered her.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

 

Doc Robbins watched out of the corner of his eye as across the morgue, David carefully rinsed off the newest body. Something was slightly odd, and he wasn’t sure what it was. Focusing carefully, he concentrated, working one sense at a time, and when he got to hearing, he understood.

David was humming.

And David was not normally a hummer.

Puzzling over this, Robbins reached for his cane and slowly turned, looking at his junior colleague, carefully studying at him, trying to see if there was anything physically different about the man. At first glance, nothing seemed to have changed: same haircut, same glasses, clean smock—but David was smiling, not something you saw often from anyone working around gory motorcycle accident victims. Intrigued, Robbins was on the verge of asking, in a roundabout sort of way, when the other man looked up and smiled sheepishly.

“Oh sorry. Didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“No, that’s all right. Was that the Olympic theme?”

“Yes,” David admitted, dropping his head a little. Robbins nodded encouragingly, but that was all David seemed to have to say on the matter; with a sigh, Robbins shook his head and turned back to his paperwork. After a moment, David silently slipped out of the morgue.

He headed down the hall, slowing as he approached the break room, coming to a dead stop at the doorway as he peeked in, blinking. Jacqui and Clem were commiserating over mugs of coffee, and Greg was lounging in a chair across from them reading a surfing magazine. They all looked up, and David blushed, not used to the scrutiny.

“Yes?” Jacqui asked cheerfully. David fished in his pocket and pulled out a pair of tickets; instantly Clem jumped up and glided over to him, smiling. She gave him a thumbs up, then studied the tickets while he watched her.

“Going somewhere?” Greg asked, lightly. David nodded.

“Laxault High School track and field this Saturday. My sister Natalie is competing . . .” he trailed off.

Clem scribbled something on her whiteboard and tapped her watch handed it to him; he smiled shyly, speaking up again. “Around three o’clock’s fine. The ticket’s just a formality of course . . .”

Clem nodded, plucking one of them from his hand and mouthing a bright-eyed ‘thank you’ to him. She brushed past him out to the hall as Jacqui gave a soft little hoot from the table, her eyes twinkling.

“David you’re blushing!”

“Yes,” he agreed, helplessly. Greg rolled his eyes, torn between amusement and annoyance as he turned the page of his magazine.

“Sooo, you and Clem have a date,” he murmured, striving for nonchalance.

Almost making it too.

David grew pinker, going from a carnation to a deep fuschia, but he managed a small smile and squared his shoulders.

“Sort of . . . “ came his wondering reply. Jacqui grinned and stood up, carrying her coffee mug with her.

“Well, a word of advice--just don’t let her dominate the conversation," she teased as she stepped past him. David blinked, started to say something, and stopped. Greg gave an impatient sigh.

“It was a JOKE, dude. Sheesh," he grumbled, finally tossing down his magazine and shooting David a pitying look. “I take it you don’t do this sort of thing often.”

“Well, Natalie competes once a year . . .”

“I meant the dating part,” Greg managed, with what for him was commendable patience. David pursed his mouth thoughtfully, and cleared his throat.

“I date,” he managed in a soft rebuke. At that point though, Catherine bustled in, grinning with a cat-like smugness as she surveyed the room.

“Gentlemen, we have work to do—either of you two seen Brown or Stokes around here?”

Both of them shook their heads as Catherine gave a little growl, dropping her hands on her hips.  
“Damn it, here I am with the perfect opportunity to lord it over the men and they’re out—I mean honestly, what’s the good of being acting supervisor if there’s no gloating?”

“You can gloat over US,” Greg invited, dubiously. 

Catherine glanced at him and David, then snickered, somewhat heartlessly. “Thanks Greg, but—I don’t kick bunnies.”

*** *** ***

Sara shifted through the folders of papers, a pencil clenched in her teeth. Through the windows of the Denali, the scenery rumbled by, unviewed, as she focused on the forms in her lap. She shifted the pencil to behind her ear.

“I can’t find the checklist for the lecture on the principles of fiber processing!” she whined softly. 

Grissom grinned and kept his gaze on the highway, his hands lightly gripping the steering wheel.  
“It’s there, Sara—probably taped to either the front inside or back inside flap of the folder. Relax, calm down," he told her. She turned to glance at him, and he took a moment just to appreciate how lovely she was in her maroon sleeveless sweater and dragonfly necklace. Even her scowl couldn’t hide her charms.

“It’s one of the first presentations and I just want to make sure it’s ready to go—honestly, I had all this stuff sorted and filed and stacked JUST right when we left, Grissom. Down to the last paperclip and highlighter!”

“You’ll do fine, trust me.”

“WE’LL do fine,” she corrected absently, pulling a sheet at random and looking it over. Grissom said nothing, and she glanced over at him, her brown eyes wide, slightly frightened.

“Griss—"

“You have the knowledge and the talent, Sara. Presenting is part of job.”

“No! YOU do the lecturing, I just hand you the samples and set up the AV stuff . . . you KNOW I’m not good at talking to a group!” came her panicky retort. Grissom hid his smirk out of a sense of self-preservation as Sara bit her bottom lip; when she did that sort of thing it was all he could do not to pull over and kiss the daylights out of her.

A few more miles passed by, and finally Sara gave a loud, noisy sigh. “Shit. You’re going to make this mandatory, aren’t you? Some part of my evaluation.”

“No I didn’t say that. You know as well as I do that any performance evaluation on you is now Catherine’s bailiwick. I look at your solve rates, prior cases and goals only.”

Sara nodded reluctantly and turned her head to look at him again, “But you still want me . . . expect me, to present.”

Grissom slowly nodded, his hands tightening on the wheel. “We’ve got two presentations each day for four days, Sara. That’s a lot of lecturing, even for me,” he admitted. “And you know trace, specifically fiber, better than anyone in Las Vegas. Even Nick can’t top you for match and compares. I figured that by giving you a chance to talk about an area you excel in, you’d be more comfortable. They’re already your notes, your PowerPoint presentation—"

“Yeah,” she conceded reluctantly, carefully setting the folder into the filebox at her feet. Grissom relaxed a bit and pointed with his chin.

“Keep an eye out for a sign. According to the directions, we’re within a few miles of the turnoff.”

Sara looked up just in time to catch sight of a billboard, advertising the dubious charms of someplace called CockaDoodle. Judging from the ten-foot smoldering eyed Adonis gracing it; it seemed to be a male strip club. She tried not to smile as they passed the billboard. “Wrong sign I guess.”

Grissom merely shook his head. “A little Vegas goes a long way.”

“I don’t know . . . given the clinging effect of those pants it didn’t look little to me,” she observed, as much to tease Grissom as anything else.

He snorted. “What is it they say—the camera adds ten pounds?”

At that, Sara did laugh. The Denali drove on, and finally Grissom was the one to spot the sign indicating the exit for Sheba Nevada, population 55810. The meandering road led into a downtown, of sorts, with architecture mostly out of the 50s—low single story shops, plate glass windows, diners. They drove down the main street and Sara studied the buildings with a smirk on her face.

“It looks quaint. Very . . . home town-y.”

“Mayberry of Nevada,” Grissom agreed lightly, taking a left turn at the one major intersection. A few miles later, Grissom pointed with his bearded chin to a brick building with gold three-dimensional letters that spelled out Sheba Police Department. Grissom pulled up and parked.

Sara looked at him. “So. Think they’re going to be stand-offish and suspicious, or wide-eyed and excited?” she asked, grinning. 

Grissom shrugged. “If this is payback for a favor at Sheriff Atwater’s expense it means we could get ANY sort of reception, Sara. My advice is that we stay professional and deal with whatever comes our way, no matter what.”

“Professional huh? I guess that means no holding hands on our way to the malt shop tonight,” she pointed out. 

Grissom pursed his mouth, shooting her a wry look as he unbuckled his seat belt. “Ah, but we are affianced, are we not? With that state of being comes a certain degree of privilege, and permission,"

“—In your case, prevalence,” she snorted. 

Grissom arched an eyebrow. “Perks. After a long day of lecturing, I deserve all I can get.”

“Of what? Pampering? Petting?”

“Of something else that begins with the letter P but will get me evil looks if I say it,” Grissom cheerfully concluded, climbing out of the car, leaving Sara laughing. She followed him, parking her sunglasses on the top of her head as she followed him through the glass doors into the building.

The young officer at the information desk looked up at them, smiling. Her nametag read HARPER.

“Hi, we’re from the Las Vegas Crime Lab," Grissom didn’t get to finish as the woman smiled, revealing big white teeth.

“Cool beans and salad greens! The chief and Daisy’ll be glad you made it in good time! Do you have things to unload, to bring in from the road?”

Sara nodded, and Officer Harper rose, coming around the desk. She motioned to a hallway off to their left. “I’ll get TJ to come help get your stuff to the conference room. Chief Morgan is out at the moment, but in the meantime I’ll take you to Daisy’s office. Was it a long trip?”

They walked down the hallway, their shoes clattering on the old linoleum; Sara caught signs pointing out different departments within the building: Booking, Bail, Records, Impound Lot. Officer Harper led them deeper in the maze of offices, stopping at one with a sign reading: D. Brandtstein, Coroner.

“And here we are never fear. Daisy? Company’s here!” Officer Harper called as she leaned around a doorframe of an office. Grissom and Sara looked in at the woman seated behind the untidy desk.

She was a slim woman with great masses of pearly white hair held back by various tortoiseshell combs into a chignon of sorts. Around her neck hung two different pairs of glasses, and her lab coat had embroidered pink skulls along the lapels. She rose up, smiling and came around the desk, hand extended.

“Doctor Grissom and Ms. Sidle, right? Rory said you were two of the best criminalists in the state, quite likely the whole southwest! I’m Daisy B. Welcome to Sheba.”

“Thank you,” Sara replied, her hand pumped heartily in turn after Grissom’s.

He shot her a quick look before turning his attention back to the coroner. “Please call me just Grissom--Doctor Brandtstein?”

“Oh forget that name, just Daisy or Doc B. I’m not about to take anymore Frankenstein comparisons, not at my age. So, what time would you folks like to start tomorrow? I haven’t sent out the last memo for the staff yet because I wanted to give you time to get in and settled up at the Wayside Inn.”

“Ah, we appreciate that—say, ten o’clock tomorrow then? Elements of Crime Scene Preservation in the morning, and Principals of Fiber Processing in the afternoon?” Grissom offered thoughtfully.

Daisy nodded. “Copacetic! I can promise you a good turnout for both of them—Harper here can run to Kinko’s if you need any more copies of things, and Joe—that is Chief Morgan, should be back shortly.”

“A good turnout would be—?” Sara ventured softly.

Daisy laughed. “Well, in terms of actual police, about thirty, all told, but we’ve got a fair share of interested citizens, students, general busybodies and other parties who’ve indicated they’d like to attend. I hope that doesn’t bother you.”

Grissom frowned a little, cocking his head. “This isn’t entertainment, Doc. What Ms. Sidle and I are presenting is fairly serious and at times very graphic. I don’t object to anyone showing a genuine interest in criminalistics, but this isn’t for the average person off the street.”

Daisy gave a nod, her grey eyes twinkling. “I understand, Grissom, I surely do, but I’m hoping that by having some of these people see the science and reasoning that goes into an investigation, we’ll have more co-operation from them, and less interference. Our force is fairly small, and too many times we’ve gotten to a crime scene after a bunch of Lookie Lous have trampled through the area.”

Grissom winced, as did Sara. 

Daisy nodded sadly. “Not the best of situations, so the more public knowledge, the better as far as I can see—still with me?”

Grissom nodded just as a dark-haired man strode down the hall and towards the office door. He was in a blue button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, gun, badge and radio hanging on his belt; as he looked up, his gaze sought out Daisy first, Grissom noticed, then scanned the others.

“These our guests, Dais?” his deep bass voice rolled out.

“Yes. Joe, I’d like you to meet Doctor Grissom, who likes to be called just Grissom, and Ms. Sara Sidle, both from the Las Vegas Crime Lab.”

“Joe Morgan, chief,” he rumbled politely as another round of handshakes took place. He grinned at the coroner, shaking his head.

“Wow, Atwater actually KEPT a campaign promise—will wonders never cease.”

*** *** ***

Catherine sat back and rubbed her eyes, staring blearily at the stack of files on the left side of the desk. She could swear that it should have been smaller, but it didn’t look that way, even after three hours of industrious signing off and transferring folders to the right side of the desk. Her coffee had gone cold, and at this point, she found herself wishing for a field case—anything to take her out of this chair and away from the numbing process of clearing out the month’s statistics.

Maybe she needed to rethink this whole supervisor business.

Stretching, she rolled her head from ear to ear and tried not to let the crackle of her neck bother her as Clem strode by, laying a stack of mail and a memo on the desk. Catherine muttered a quick thank you and picked up the envelopes, sorting through them with renewed briskness. Some bug society, an insurance claim form, a reminder about the LVPD Picnic day . . . and at the bottom, the memo:

_To: Gil Grissom, Sup/night shift_  
From: Robert Carvello, Director  
RE: Sexual Harassment in the workplace  
Grissom:  
It’s been brought to my attention that your follow-through with the night shift staff regarding the federally mandated annual training on the LVPD sexual harassment policies is practically nonexistent. HR tells me that none of your staff have gone through the required seminar with the exception of G. Sanders at your request back in April of last year. Please rectify this situation within the next ten days before payroll is notified and fines are levied against your staff.  
R. Carvello  
NB: I don’t need to remind you we’ve got a Federal audit coming up, and I am NOT going to give them anything to nitpick over, Grissom. Get on the team. 

Catherine blinked, a chill shooting through her chest; the thought of the audit didn’t frighten her half as much as the threat of fines. The government played rough on that department, and she knew any cut in pay would probably be more than any of them could afford to lose. She set the memo down and shook her head, wondering how Grissom had forgotten such an issue this year. The answer hit her a second later.

Sara, of course.

Catherine gave a twisted grin. Grissom hadn’t had had any sort of problem scheduling other required seminars; in fact, Catherine remembered attending several and giggling with Nick over some of the more simplistic scenes in the Earthquake Safety video. But it was clear to her that by loving Sara, Grissom had internalized rather than resolved his workplace ethics conflict, and the end result has here under her hands: unconscious denial.

It was like the deafness all over again.

“Damn it, Gil," she growled softly, rubbing a hand along her forehead. She thought for a long moment, then reached for the phone on the desk. A few quick number punches, and she reached her connection.  
“Teddi Zathric, Human Resources, how can I help you?”

“Hi, I’m Catherine Willows with the Crime lab, night shift and I need to talk to someone about scheduling my crew to see the Sexual Harassment presentation?”

“Hold on, let me transfer you . . ."

Catherine did, grimly, tapping her pencil and doodling on the phone pad in front of her—little images of Grissom dying in several unpleasant ways. She was still on hold, and had just drawn a fairly realistic garroting when Greg wandered in, a new file in his hands. He glanced down at the pad and grinned.

“Not happy with your boss?”

“You could say that—you’re the only one off the hook at the moment, Greg.”

“Really?” he perked up, handing the folder he carried to her. Catherine sighed, shifting the phone to her other ear and adding the manila folder to the stack on the left of her.

“Yep. You’ve been through the Sexual Harassment seminar—how was it?”

Greg gave a nonchalant shrug, but his look was wary. “Informative, yet boring. Why?”

“Because it looks like the rest of us are going to have a burn a Saturday morning to take it,” Catherine growled.

Greg made the mistake of smirking, and she swatted him with the nearest file, making him dodge out the doorway.“Hey hey, talk about a case in point, boss lady! Watch where you swing that thing!”

“This isn’t harassment, it’s disciplinary action," Catherine corrected him, but she grinned and tossed the folder back on the pile. Greg hesitated a moment, shooting a look down the hall towards the morgue.

“So when you say everyone . . .”

“I mean EVERYONE. From me, all the way to Archie and those part-time typists in the records room. Grissom didn’t schedule anybody this year but you, and so now we’re all going to have to attend it this Saturday. Thirty-three people are going to have to re-arrange their weekends . . .” she sighed.

Greg tried to look sympathetic as he clung to the doorway. “So that means Doc Robbins too, huh? And . . . David?”

Catherine nodded absently, listening to the voice on the receiver, but Greg had peeled himself away and was headed back down the hall, whistling happily. He threw himself into his rolling chair and spun around once, then got back to work.

*** *** ***

“This is . . . interesting,” Grissom finally commented. Sara blinked. She set the suitcase down and did a slow pan of the room, trying not to miss anything.

“Grissom, it’s shaggy. Hideously shaggy. Wall-to-wall and halfway to the ceiling shaggy! This entire room is like being in the back of some teenager’s Econo-van from nineteen seventy-seven,” she muttered.

She wasn’t far off. The room was done in a shade of burgundy that looked as if it had come out of a wino’s lunch. The thick shag carpeting did indeed stretch throughout the room and three feet up the walls, leaving both Sara and Grissom with the impression of standing in a giant furry mouth. The sections of wall NOT covered were a faux rock design in dark slate, the spaces between the fake stones as white as bathroom grout. Above them was a faux Tudor ceiling with wood beams crossing the white plaster, complete with a huge wrought iron chandelier. Grissom walked over to the king-sized bed, his head cocked to one side as he studied it a moment.

The thick velour bedspread matched that of the shag carpeting.

Exactly.

On the wall over the bed hung a stuffed ram’s head, the tangerine glass eyes crossed, the curling horns looking menacingly sharp.

“It IS a little disconcerting,” he admitted in a low voice. 

Sara sighed. She wandered over to the faux rock fireplace and found the gas switch, flicking it on; instantly a blaze flared up, and the light of the fire gave the red of the room a lurid brightness. The ram’s head took on a slightly demonic appearance.

Sara laughed weakly. “I feel like I’m staying in Liberace’s love shack. Satin throw pillows, the TV set into the rock wall here—Freak O’Rama, babe. If the sheriff calls and tells us Laura Palmer is dead and wrapped in plastic I wouldn’t be a damn bit surprised.”

Grissom chuckled, examining the bedside lamp with its burgundy shade and long silk fringe around the bottom.

“Let me remind you that YOU chose the Burgundy Room, Sara, so I wash my hands of it.”

“Great, so I get Frankenstein’s brothel while YOU get . . . ” she motioned to the wood paneled connecting door. Grissom opened it and peered in.

“I have the Bobby Vinton room, apparently. Blue velvet, as far as the eye can see," he sighed.

Sara moved to peek through the door and shook her head commiseratingly as she crossed her arms.  
“Powder blue is NOT a masculine color, Grissom. You’re going to feel your testosterone evaporating every second you’re in there.”

“Very likely,” he winced, trying to stifle a yawn and not succeeding. Sara took pity on him and slipped into his arms as they stood in the doorway, caught between two rooms.

“So—pick a color, any color," Grissom murmured into her hair as he stroked her spine. Sara experimentally licked the hollow of his throat above his open collar and he gave a little moan of pleasure.

“I look good in burgundy, definitely,” she murmured, her attention still on his throat. Grissom tugged her back into her room and closed the door on the Blue room. Sara pulled out of his embrace, yawning.  
“Bed then?”

“Seems wise. We’re still running on a diurnal sleep cycle. Do you want the bathroom first?”

“Yeah. Why don’t you go ahead and unpack,” Sara suggested.

Grissom nodded. He set the case on the dresser and was just flipping the latches open when he heard her laughter echoing beyond the door. 

“What?”

“More velour décor, Gil. Geez! Even the _toilet seat_ is burgundy!”

He gave a little shudder and finished hanging up various items in the closet. Once done, Grissom looked up at the ram’s head and sighed. Very cautiously, he climbed on the bed and braced his hands around the neck of the taxidermied mountain goat, giving it a tug. It didn’t budge. He tried again, harder, but the head remained firmly in place, the cross-eyed glare of the beast chiding Grissom for even making the attempt to dislodge him.

“Ah . . . what are you doing?”

He looked over his shoulder at Sara and whatever he was going to say died on his lips as he took in the sight of her standing there. She wore a long sleeved black tee shirt and matching panties, tied up low on each hip with bows that Grissom instantly decided needed to be untied with his teeth.

“Rammed. I wanted to make sure we didn’t get,” he attempted to explain. 

Sara ambled over, looking up, her smile wide and close to a laugh. “We didn’t get?”

“Sara," he waved at the stuffed head, “Think about the logical chain of events. The bed is against the wall. The head is on the wall. The bed, ah, moves. The wall vibrates. The ram’s head—"

“—Falls, okay, yeah I get it. The last thing the two of us need it is to end up in the Sheba Emergency room because we were clocked by a dropping mountain goat head while in the throes of hot monkey love.”

Grissom arched an eyebrow at her and wordlessly she dared him to reassess her summation. He stepped off the bed.

“Stunning summation,” he grudgingly admitted.

Sara laughed, and it died away as she reached up and stretched, letting the long lean lines of her body straighten out. 

Grissom felt his mouth go dry.

“Sara . . .”

She brought her arms down and looked through her lashes at him, then advanced, pouncing in one quick, slightly wobbly leap. They fell back on the bed, which sank in a bit under their combined weight and Grissom glanced up.

Sara looked up as well. “So?”

“So it’s bolted on. Barring a major earthquake it’s safe to assume Rocky isn’t going anywhere.”

“Can we . . . cover him?” Sara asked softly. “I mean, not that I’m a prude, but I don’t want to be uh, watched . . .”

Grissom laughed. He swiftly undid his shirt and tossed it in a surprisingly accurate throw; it flared open and hooked right over the animal’s face, effectively blocking it with a drape of grey cotton.   
Sara sighed in relief. “At least it’s not a burgundy shirt."

*** *** ***

The last rays of the setting sun peeked through the heavy drapes, and managed to catch Sara in the eyes; she rolled over, draping herself sleepily on Grissom’s chest, giving a contented little sigh as she did so. 

He stroked her back, feeling amused that both Figaro and Sara seemed to love the same touch, both arching their spines into his hand when he did it.

The cell phone rang; lazily Grissom reached for it. “Grissom.”

An indecipherable chatter blared out; Sara wished Catherine didn’t sound so strident, and nuzzled into Grissom, wrapping her leg around his hip, pressing herself into the part of him happiest to receive the caress.

“Crap. No I didn’t forget, I talked to Ann Che about booking the conference room in September, but we got bumped when they tore up the carpeting for black mold, remember?”

More chattering; Grissom slid his free hand down the small of Sara’s back and across her bare bottom, caressing it absently. She smiled against his chest.  
“Fine. If you’ve got it scheduled for Saturday then it’s covered. Anyone who doesn’t make the Saturday seminar can catch the make-up one the following weekend.” He patiently responded. Sara slid over him, pressing her hips harder, and Grissom shot her a warning look even as he smiled. She licked her lips and pressed her mouth to his chest, eliciting a gasp.

“Catherine, do what you have to—I have to go, something’s come up," he growled into the phone, snapping it shut and tossing it back on the nightstand. Sara laughed at his last remark, but Grissom didn’t give her time to laugh long; he cupped her bottom and gave a deep sigh.

“Sara—“ he bleakly gazed into her eyes.

“Yes?”

“I hate to ask this but--where’s your patch?”


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

 

Sara blinked, her hand sliding down to the back of her left hip, wandering over the smooth terrain, her expression first puzzled then worried.

“It’s supposed to be right HERE," she blurted in a concerned tone.

Grissom glanced over her shoulder and shook his head. “It’s not. I thought you replaced it yesterday.”

“I DID,” Sara frowned, working her jaw back and forth as she thought furiously. “You told me that really BAD joke about the dead guy and the Cheetos, and ripped the old one off."

“Waaait a minute—wasn’t that about when Figaro fell in the bathtub?” Grissom asked. 

She grinned and nodded, a chuckle bubbling out of her. “Oh yeah. Mr. Grace and Balance along the edge slipped and landed in the water. God was he pissed!”

Grissom laughed softly as well at the memory of Figaro scrambling around in the four inches of water, wet and bedraggled, mewing piteously. It had taken two towels and a lot of soothing on Sara’s part to restore the feline’s dignity, and even then he’d stalked off to vindictively curl up on Grissom’s pillow.

“So after we dried off his Royal Highness, I remember cleaning the vanity counter, sweeping the paper wrappers for the new patch into the garbage . . . so that’s probably where the patch itself is, huh?”

Grissom sighed, nodding.

Sara gave a little sigh of frustration and let her fingertips slide up over Grissom’s bare chest, toying with the silver chain resting on it. The little St. Albert’s medallion lying between his pecs was warm from his skin.

“And in all that careful packing, you didn’t by chance include supplies of a more—intimate—nature, did you?”

“No,” he admitted, equally frustrated. “There are still about seven in my nightstand at home, but since you’ve been using the patches I’ve let them sit. It’s okay— Sheba ’s got pharmacies and grocery stores, Sara. We can always run an errand you know.”

She rolled away from him with a sigh, fishing over the side of the bed for her shirt and tugging it on. “Yes, but that doesn’t help right now—and why the heck do you always make me get naked when we go to bed, even if we don’t actually DO it?”

Grissom propped himself up on one elbow and paused a moment, looking at her. “I’m addicted to your skin, Acushla mine. In my cranky self-centered middle age I’ve gotten obsessed with the warm sweet sensation of your body around me. I never knew loving you would have such a profound effect on my solitary ways, Sara, but it has. I need you.”

She turned to look at Grissom, astonished at this admission and he gave her his shy, quirky smile.  
“Oh I SO want to love you just for that," she breathed. 

He shook his head and moved to sit up, taking himself away from the temptation of her big velvet chocolate eyes. “We have a dinner date to keep,” he reminded her regretfully. 

Sara checked the clock on the mahogany nightstand and nodded.

*** *** ***

Within an hour they were standing in front of the Green Dragon restaurant. Sara was examining the menu taped to the door while Grissom looked up and down the street.

“It’s Main Street, but not the main drag . . . economic decay is setting in. From where we are I can see three stores that are out of business.”

A clatter of footsteps caught their attention; Daisy came up, a flyer in her hand. She smiled delightedly at them.

“Sara, Grissom—looks like we’ve got quite a turnout for tomorrow. At least seventy folks have signed up, so we’re going to move it to the high school auditorium if that’s all right with you. It’s got sink facilities and all the bells and whistles for your presentations with the added advantage of parking.”

“That’s good," Sara replied politely as Grissom blinked a little. 

Daisy motioned to the Green Dragon with her free hand. “I hope you two like Chinese—Mai’s holding my favorite table for us. Come in, come in!”

The décor was typically tacky and endearing: red plastic lanterns, silk screened oriental landscapes, even a huge fish tank of slow moving carp and koi displayed against one wall. It was a busy place, with many of the booths already filled. Daisy led the way to a bigger booth near the back of the restaurant and slid onto the red vinyl seat with a happy sigh. Sara and Grissom slid in on the other side.

“Finally, a chance just to relax. So--what do you think of the Wayside?”

From the twinkle in her eyes, Sara knew Daisy was holding back a laugh. Grissom kept a straight face, but Sara felt him shift a little and knew he too was amused.“It’s . . . atypical,” he finally offered. 

Daisy laughed out loud, a deep pleased sound that Sara couldn’t help but join in on.

“Oh yes, the Wayside is definitely out of the mold, that’s for sure. Mazlo Pearcy built it in 1968 and the décor hasn’t changed since then, even if the years have gone by. Kids around here call it the Austin Powers motel, and it’s got a reputation as a bit of a passion pit. However, it’s not too expensive and it’s central, so Joe and I put you there to save some money. Just say the word if you want to go to the Econo-Lodge instead.”

“No, the Wayside is fine. I particularly like the, uh, coziness of all that shag,” Sara smiled. 

Daisy laughed again. “Good to hear. Joe will be joining us shortly, but we can order now if you’d like.”

They chatted for a while after placing their orders, and Sara relaxed a little. Daisy asked good questions and seemed to know how to keep the conversation in safe territory. Only once did she stray off, complimenting Grissom’s wedding band.

“I’m not married,” he offered with a quiet smile. 

Sara was tempted to nudge him under the table, but sensed that discretion was the better part of valor at the moment. Joe Morgan finally showed up, settling in next to Daisy, and Sara noted their personal space overlapped almost as much as her own and Grissom’s. She mentally filed that away as the food arrived and they all began eating.

“So the story is that Rory Atwater grew up in this town, and still has family around here,” Daisy commented, waving her chopsticks for emphasis. “I tutored him through high school chemistry and I’ve never called in the debt until this last election when Joe and I ran into a problem with what we laughingly call a crime lab here in Sheba. We have one full-time tech, Lloyd London, and while he’s good with fingerprints and collecting Trace, he . . ." Daisy paused.

Joe sighed and picked up the thread, shaking his head sadly as he sipped his tea. “ . . . Pukes at blood and semen. Every damn time. It’s embarrassing but true. So, we convinced Rory to set up this series of lectures to get Lloyd some respect. He and our part-timer Anita both need some better PR. And it doesn’t hurt to share the wealth with our local busybodies too. I’m sure you have your own groupies who want to help and don’t really know how.”

Grissom and Sara nodded concurrently just as a beeper went off; reflexively all four of them checked with Joe and Daisy sighing.

“419 . . . oh God, Joe, it’s at the CockaDoodle. Just what we needed for dessert,” Daisy groaned.

Grissom looked swiftly at Sara then back to the coroner, his expression curious. “The strip club? Sara noted the sign back on the highway," he quickly clarified, earning an annoyed glance from her that he ignored. 

Joe nodded and shoved the beeper back in his pocket wearily. “That’s the place,” he rumbled in his deep bass voice. “One of the few businesses in town that’s making money, but God I hate calls out there.”

Daisy shot him an amused smile. “Be honest Joe— both the patrons and the dancers hit on you. All that testosterone on the loose.”

Joe rubbed his face and didn’t reply; instead he glanced at Grissom with an almost hound dog look in his eyes. “Care to ride along? I realize you and Ms. Sidle aren’t obligated in any way, but it would be a good opportunity to see our team in action and point out where we need priorities in improvement."

“We’d love to," Sara spoke up, reaching for her last vegetarian spring roll and scooting out of the booth after Grissom.

*** *** ***

The blond was quite dead; his big body sprawled on the industrial carpeting of the dressing room floor in a heap that suggested a sudden end. A toppled chair lay near him in the small room, right beside the square wooden pillar in the middle of the room. Joe, Daisy, Grissom and Sara stood peering into the backstage room carefully.

Sara set her extra field kit down and unlatched it, pulling out a pair of gloves. With unconscious synchronicity, she and Grissom pulled on their latex in swift, absent-minded efficiency. Daisy followed them into the room as Grissom took the lead and carefully looked around.

“The body’s been redressed."

Not by much, Sara mentally noted, eyeing the green satin pouch, which was the only thing the man wore. She fought a smirk and made herself study the elements of the furniture around the small room instead, trying to figure what seemed out of place or off. Grissom was examining the body as Daisy knelt on the other side of it and gave a sigh.

“It’s Not-So-Tiny Tim Dickens,” she looked up at Grissom, who shot her a startled look back. Sara fought off an inappropriate giggle. 

Joe cleared his throat with a hint of menace. “You KNOW this stripper, Dais?”

“Harper and I saw him strut his stuff two months ago at her sister’s bachlorette party over at Mona’s. Nice boy if you could get past the flirting," she responded absently, setting the probe into the tough muscle of the corpse’s abdomen.

“Harper never mentioned you were at that party," Joe grumbled under his breath. 

Sara shot Grissom a glance, but he was carefully examining the neck of the body, studying the red impression all around it.

“Strangulation?” Daisy wondered out loud.

Grissom shook his head. “The most damage is right in the front, along the larynx. His windpipe was probably the target.”

“Effective but a painful way to die,” Daisy agreed.

Joe ran a hand through his hair, coming to some inner resolution. “Okay then, if you guys can handle the scene, I’ll leave you to it and go talk to Fuzzy, see who was in and out of here tonight. Daisy, you called Lloyd?”

“Yep—I’ll get a ride back with the body and see you back at the morgue,” she shot him a quick glance and Sara noted the hint of tenderness in it.

To avoid being caught staring, Sara bent down and touched the chair, noting the position of it to the body. She looked down and bit her lips at the sight of a familiar puddle a foot away  
.  
“We’ve got semen here, fairly fresh," came her soft comment. Grissom glanced over and nodded as Sara swabbed it, capping the evidence quickly. He carefully probed into the red weal along the body’s neck with tweezers and fished something out that glittered in the lights of the dressing room. 

Daisy peered at it curiously. “Flake of metal. Something polished,” came her comment.

Grissom nodded.

*** *** ***

In the end, Daisy sent them back to the Wayside around two in the morning, insisting they’d need the rest before the first presentation at ten. Grissom might have argued the point, but Sara was yawning, and without the advantages of Greg and his seventy-five thousand dollars worth of equipment on call, the murder case would move at Sheba’s pace, not that of Las Vegas.

As they cruised back towards the Wayside, Grissom slowed the Denali, turned into the parking lot of a Ready-Mart drugstore and then looked at Sara.

She glanced at the store, slightly confused. “Grissom?"

“Supplies,” he whispered to her in a soft reminder.

Sara arched an eyebrow at him in a teasing challenge. “I see. Toothpaste?”

“No.”

“Razors?”

“Ah, no.”

“Aspirin? Shampoo? A bag of Oreos with double stuff in the middle and a six pack of Orange Crush to wash it all down?” she commented with a dreamy tone in her voice.

Grissom stopped mid-stride to stare at Sara, managed an innocent expression as they approached the front doors.

She grinned, the gap in her teeth flashing. “I guess not. So with all that out of the way I have to ask one thing—why am I going IN with you?”

Grissom kept looking at her and Sara shrugged her shoulders. “I mean come on—you don’t need me along to buy prophylactics, right? In fact, it’s going to look downright smutty if I’m standing there next to you while you pick them up.”

“No it won’t. If anything, it will look highly responsible of us, not that I particularly worry about making a moral impression on a nightshift clerk in a small town in upstate Nevada, Sara. What I DO worry about is waking up in a few hours and wanting to play Lord of the Burgundy Bed, but being unable to indulge in my droit du seigneur because we don’t have any birth control.”

Sara’s jaw dropped and she laughed. Grissom pursed his mouth but his eyes were twinkling as he strode into the drugstore, Sara trailing behind him, trying to regain a sense of composure and not succeeding very well.

She caught up with him down the nearest aisle and snorted softly. “Lord of the Burgundy Bed?”

Grissom said nothing, but she noted a flush along his neck along his collar. She pointed with her chin to the back of the store towards the pharmacy and followed him there. They slowed as they approached the appropriate aisle. Little boxes hung from display rods, each touting their advantages over the others with claims and promises across their packaging. Grissom pretended to seriously examine the display as Sara studied him.

“Games of jus primae noctis—boy, you think you know a man and he still manages to surprise you.” She reached for a small box in yellow and grey, a package that advertised the contents were designed for HER pleasure.

Grissom sighed softly, still not meeting her eyes.  
“Yes, well let’s just say the décor at the Wayside got the better of me.”

“Fair enough,” she smiled softly, bumping his shoulder with hers. His mouth twitched again when she spoke softly, even though the store was almost completely empty at this hour of the morning.   
“Pretty considerate of you not to knock up the virgin peasant bride here.”

“Noblesse oblige,” Grissom shot back with mock loftiness that dissolved Sara into chuckles again. She held up another package and he finally did look at her, his smile slow and knowing; Sara felt herself blush, and the heat in the pit of her stomach flared. He nodded approval and they walked back up the aisle. Before they could head to the checkout, however, Grissom steered Sara down another lane and carefully reached up on the shelf, handing her another, bigger package. She laughed, hefting the Oreos and throwing him a grateful look.

“Bribing the wench?”

“I’m a beneficent lord, generous in many ways.”

Sara tossed the bag lightly from hand to hand. “So does that mean you’re going to fork over for the Crush too?”

“Sara,” he growled, “You’re going to end up hyper on sugar.” Nevertheless, he led her to the refrigerated wall cases and fished out a six pack of orange soda.   
She took it from him and batted her eyes, smiling so widely her dimples showed. “Oh yeah, I’m totally swearing fealty to YOU, Sir Grissom of the Burgundy Bed."

Grissom gave a long suffering sigh, but managed to lightly swat her rump as they moved to the counter and dropped their goods onto it.

The teenaged clerk, a pale thin girl with bloodshot eyes tried to smile at them.“Did you find everything okay?”

Sara nodded politely, trying not to look embarrassed. The girl swiped the cookies and six pack easily, the ‘bloop’ of the scanner loud in the empty store. As she dragged the box of condoms over the light, however, it screeched. All three of them winced; the girl fumbled with the package and dropped it at her feet, fishing for it around the letterman jacket, baton and pom poms there while Sara held her breath and Grissom sighed.

“Uhhh, sorry about that," the red-faced clerk mumbled, tossing the box up to the counter and sliding it over the scanner once more. It gave a second screech and the teenager looked helplessly at Grissom.

“These usually don’t do this," she blurted. Sara covered her eyes with her hand as the girl began to reach for the intercom, about to loudly broadcast a request for a price check on---

“They’re ten dollars and fifty cents; with tax, eleven ninety-four,” came Grissom’s calm flat accent. The girl hastily rang it up, stuffing the package into the bag with the cookies and soda. 

Sara grabbed the bag up and shot out of the door with Grissom following behind her after paying the clerk. “Oh God. That was THE most embarrassing moment of my life!” she moaned, clutching the bag tightly.

Grissom started the Denali, his expression still mild, but a hint of heat along his cheekbones. “Yes, well for me, it runs a close second to buying Maxi pads for my mother while standing in line behind Eldon Rothman.”

Sara glanced over at Grissom, who caught her look and elaborated, reluctantly. “Football jock, first class bully, bane of my seventh grade year. He loudly speculated on my unavoidable purchase in every class we shared for a month until the afternoon I took Polaroids of him in the locker room, masturbating over a copy of Playgirl. After that he left me alone.”

Sara blinked, both a little frightened and downright amused. 

Grissom shrugged. “I was a ghost by choice, Sara.”

*** *** ***

Clem wrote a hasty note on her board and held it up to David, who was busy washing his hands in the stainless steel sink in the morgue. 

He shook his head sorrowfully. “No, I’ll either take the make-up session, or pay the fine. Natalie’s counting on me to coach her on Saturday, and we’ve really worked hard for this."

Clem gently pushed his glasses for him, one slender finger on the nosepiece; David gave a grateful smile and let his hands drip for a moment longer.  
“But it’s okay. I know Grissom and Sara will have to take the make-up as well.”

Clem shot him a doubtful look and he shook his head firmly in reply to her silent question. “No, it’s important that you do the session, don’t worry about us. We’ll miss you, but these things happen.”

David reached for a towel and dried his hands as Clem sighed. She waved goodbye to him and continued pushing the interoffice mail cart down the hall, stopping periodically to set packages and letters down on various desks. When she reached the lab she handed Greg a huge stack of manila envelopes. He took them and flashed her a quick smile she didn’t return.

“Not a happy camper, Ms. St. Croix—have to take that Saturday session?” he ventured, trying to sound sympathetic. Clem nodded and managed an elegant eye roll as Greg began sorting his mail with a nonchalant shrug. “Ah well, political correctness comes before a social life for some of us. Sorry about you and--David.”

Clem eyed him for a moment, then nodded. She grabbed her board and swiftly wrote a few lines, then flashed the board at Greg, who read it.

_You’re telling me—I was really looking forward to seeing his sister in her second Special Olympics. David’s been coaching her for six months. He asked me to be her timekeeper, but now he’s going to have to do that as well. Stupid seminar!_

Stunned, Greg looked up at Clem, blinking rapidly.  
“Special Olympics? As in—his sister is . . .?”

Clem nodded, her lips twisting in a wry smile. A wipe of the board and she penned:  
 _Yeah, Down’s Syndrome. She’s darling, Greg. Fourteen and as sweet and playful as a puppy. Natalie’s so damn lucky to have a brother like David._

Greg drew in a breath but Clem shrugged her shoulders and wiped the board once more, setting it on top of the cart.

“I thought you guys were dating!” he blurted. Clem’s beautiful pink mouth dropped open a moment and then Greg’s stomach twisted when she appeared to consider the idea. Quickly she grabbed the whiteboard once again.

_Ohhh! Do you think he’d ever want to date me? He’s a real sweetie you know. Maybe he’d be okay with a nice dinner out if Natalie wins—Great Idea! Thanks, Greg!_

Clem beamed at him, waggled her fingers and pushed the cart off with renewed zeal, leaving Greg sitting forlornly amid his half-sorted mail, wondering why he felt a sudden, personal kinship with Daffy Duck.

*** *** ***

Sara, trying not to break the mood, peeked over the top edge of the blanket at Grissom, who was just climbing into bed next to her. Ever since the ride back from the drugstore she’d been determined to play up to Grissom’s little fantasy as a show of trust. It had taken a lot of it for him even to admit it, she knew, and somehow this ridiculous hotel room was starting to get to her as well, making her a little bit more aware of her own skin.

The fireplace helped, the blaze set low so that shadows danced along the shaggy walls; Sara felt the comparison to some castle bedroom wasn’t too far off. She rolled to face Grissom, who was stretching out, eyes closed, a mild expression on his face. She laid a hand on his bare chest, toying with his St. Albert’s medal.

“My lord?” she managed without actually laughing out loud. Grissom opened one eye, looking a little surprised. Sara took a quick breath and rushed on, “Hey, aren’t you supposed to be taking my maidenhood or something?”

“That’s the problem with peasants, they have NO patience," Grissom muttered to the underside of the ram’s head far over them. 

Sara’s hand slid down his bare stomach, stroking lazily, feeling the muscles tense under her touch. She shifted closer to breathe into his ear. “What did you expect? I’m on a sugar high and I’m horny. We toilers of the soil run on very basic needs here, even if we DO have quick metabolisms.”

Grissom grinned as Sara’s fingers slid down further, raking through the wiry fur at his groin. He sighed as her grip slid around his thickening erection, stroking gently. “Ohhhh. Nice grip—you churn butter for the castle, don’t you?” he teased. 

Sara bubbled up a giggle and pressed a kiss to the white hair at his temple as her fingers continued to caress him. “Hey, whatever lifts your lance, lover," she burbled right before Grissom rolled in her direction and cut her off with a good deep kiss.

She clung to him, knowing part of her giddiness had nothing to do with sugar at all, just the sleek heat and joyous desire of wanting this man, feeling his hunger for her. Their legs and arms entwined in slow caresses; Sara licked the tender flesh across Grissom’s cheekbones, aware that her breath was tinted by cookies.

He slid one big hand around her waist, pulling her closer, nestling his thick cock between her thighs. She shivered against the heat of him, and Grissom said nothing, merely dropped his head to her chest, kissing it as his beard tickled her sensitive skin. Sara felt her breathing grow ragged as she tightened her thighs around his shaft, squeezing it; he growled, thrusting hard.

“Sara . . .”

“Sorry,” she whispered back with teasing tenderness, “Be gentle with me . . . my lord.”

At her words he paused a moment, studying her face carefully, his own face a study in vulnerable indecision. Sara stroked his cheek, cupping in, and in that little gesture he closed his eyes, a tiny smile lighting his face. He gently pulled free of her grip and rolled, shifting his big body before Sara quite realized his intentions, but by the time she did he was already lying half across her facing her feet, his hands stroking her lean thighs, urging them to part.  
“Hey!”

“Shhhh," came his soft reprimand as he stroked his bearded cheek along the inside of one silky thigh. The tickle sent a jolt of hot arousal through her, and Sara tensed, still shocked at how the feel of Grissom’s face against her body made her breathing go ragged. She reached her arms down to touch his broad back, her hands stroking the shallow trench of his spine. Soft yet searing kisses slid along the muscles of her leg, moving inward and she helplessly spread her thighs wider to him.

The slow, reverent strokes of his tongue sent shivers through her; Sara longed to make him speed up but knew better than to try by now; Grissom never rushed, never hurried through kissing her between her knees. It was the most infuriating erotic factor of loving him; she suspected he drew it out partly as payback for teasing him, and partly for the sheer dominant male thrill of it all.

Nevertheless she squeaked out, “Grissom!” in a choked high voice as she squirmed under his body. He ignored her hands pushing against his back and merely kept up his soft delicate lapping, his hot breath blowing through the fluffy curls under his lips. His hands slid up and down the outside of her bent legs, constantly stroking until Sara thought she’d die of sensory overload. Impatiently she lifted her hips, pushing against his mouth only to hear him laugh.

“We’ve got a peasant uprising!”

It was such a bad pun and his voice was so delighted that Sara growled, pressing her feet hard against the burgundy sheets to buck against his chin and lips once more.

“Grrrrrrrisssom—!" there was no mistaking the lustful desperation in her tone, and he dipped his head once more, sucking warmly, his tongue tapping lightly the swollen bud of her desire. The effect of his maneuver was gratifying: Sara stiffened in a rush of tingling pleasure, her body shuddering under his as jolts of searing gratification surged through her long frame.

Grissom waited until she stopped clawing at his back, then kissed her inner thighs and scooted back up the bed. She lay limp, smiling with her eyes closed.

“Sara?”

“Oooooohhhh yeah, I am SO ready for you to storm my ramparts," she murmured, finally opening her lashes and shooting him a look of pure bliss.   
He snorted, but reached for a condom from the nightstand. 

Sara sat up and took it from him, tearing the packet and reverently rolling the latex onto his shaft. Grissom stretched out on the bed, reaching for her, pulling Sara down onto him even as his hands trembled a little. The firelight lit her lithe body in gold as she gently knelt over him and guided him deeply into her.

“M-my queen," Grissom gasped as she rocked against him, her smile beautiful.

*** *** ***

Sara yawned as he brushed her hair in long slow strokes. She gently rubbed more lotion on her arms.

“Sara?” he asked softly. 

She turned to look at him as he sat around her on the edge of the bed. “Yeah?”

“Tell me—what was your first orgasm like?”

It was a shy question, a very intimately Grissom question and she ducked her head to smile to herself for a moment. “Scary. Accidental. I pulled a muscle in my thigh during volleyball in 8th grade PE. Mom made me use a massager on it, and the thing accidentally slipped into my lap. Bam! Two seconds later I was folded up gasping and wondering how I could be having a heart attack between my legs,” Sara told him with a low laugh.

He drew in a breath and she rubbed long strokes of lotion on her shoulder. “It freaked me, but I couldn’t get over how amazing it felt. I learned to sort of muffle the intensity with a folded towel, and I wore the massager out by my first year at college.”

Grissom chuckled, shaking his head and shooting her a wry look that she returned full measure.  
“And you?”

“Ah. Not an accident per se. But scary. I thought I’d . . . broken myself.”

“Broken yourself?” Sara asked, setting the lotion down and stroking the last of it on the other shoulder. Grissom shifted the brush to his other hand.

“I was twelve, with a somewhat limited range of knowledge. I knew I hadn’t urinated, that it wasn’t blood, or mucus or saliva. I thought it might be vitreous fluid since I had seen white stars behind my closed eyelids . . ."

Turning, Sara smothered her laugh against his chest, slipping her arms around him. “Grissom! Vitreous fluid?”

“It was a panicked guess. Gray’s Anatomy only showed body parts, not fluids so I had to figure it out on my own.”

“Why didn’t you just ask your mom?” she lazily demanded, steering them back under the sheets.

Grissom set the brush down and turned out the light, chuckling. “Because I didn’t think she’d know, and much as I loved my mother, I wasn’t about to explain how I’d ended up leaking eyeball fluid out my penis.”

Sara laughed and Grissom joined in as they settled around each other in the darkness, gradually dropping off into a deep and contented sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

 

Sara looked out over the crowd settling into the seats of the school auditorium and winced a little. She turned her troubled gaze to Grissom, who was setting out his props along the folding table on one side of the wooden stage and eyeing them carefully.  
“I can’t do this!”

“You’re not going to. This one’s MY lecture,” he pointed out with a tiny smile. Sara shook her head and leaned closer to him, her face a mask of anxiety.

“I mean this afternoon, Grissom! Look out there! We’ve got about sixty people waiting in those seats; people watching our every move! What if I trip, or cough or something!” The growing edge of panic in her voice didn’t faze him at all.

Instead, Grissom smiled again.“So you stumble, or clear your throat—nobody’s going to jump on you for that, Sara. We’re professionals sharing what we know with an interested, ignorant audience. It’s a chance to shine.”

Sara’s skeptical expression made it clear she wasn’t convinced. “Sure. I’ll shine about as well as concrete.”

“Like a Maglite in a dark closet, Sara. Is the projector set up?”

Gratefully turning her attention to more practical matters, she looked out at the small table down in front and nodded as she handed him the remote.  
“PowerPoint’s all ready to go—all that’s left to do is pull the screen down.”

“Fine—please do that now and I’ll let Daisy know I’m about set," he murmured.

Sara stared at him a moment longer, then slipped to the wings and found the huge electrical panel on the wall. All the buttons were labeled on masking tape, and she found the one for the movie screen. She pushed it, and smoothly the big screen began to descend. Grissom looked up, and stepped aside as it lowered. She grinned at his smooth composure and when he turned to flash her a grin, she gave him a thumbs up.

Grissom looked out over the audience thoughtfully.  
“Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Gil Grissom, I’m the night shift supervisor for the Las Vegas Police Department Crime lab and I’ll be starting in a moment. This presentation covers the elements and essentials of crime scene preservation, and as my colleague Ms. Sidle knows firsthand, I tend to drone on, so a pre-emptive trip to the bathroom before I get started is a good idea."

A polite wave of laughter greeted this, and Grissom shrugged, walking around the prop table. Sara crossed her arms and watched him finish setting up, taking a moment just to stand there and love him.  
A cough made her turn; Daisy stood next to her, looking a little tired but cheerful. “He looks comfortable in front of an audience,” she observed.

Sara nodded. “Grissom’s got teaching blood in him. He can’t help it—even out in the field with us he’s always explaining, or demonstrating, or quoting. Being around him is like having your own personal tutor at times.”

“Lucky you,” came the soft reply, the intimation clear. Sara shot a look at Daisy, who shrugged, a little pink in the face. “I saw the two of you at dinner. I may be off-base but I don’t think so, Sara.”

On stage, Grissom had made a joke; the audience chuckled appreciatively and Sara ducked her head. 

Daisy shoved her hands in her lab coat pockets, sighing deeply. “I was out of line mentioning it I suppose. Call it envy—not over Gil,” she hastened to add as Sara shot her a wary look, “But of being able to make it work for the both of you. Isn’t it kind of rough, loving a colleague?”

Sara bit her lip. This was the question she’d feared from Catherine or Warrick; now out of the blue it came from an outsider, and it still wasn’t any easier to answer.

“It’s rough,” she admitted slowly, with a frown. “We’re in a situation not clearly defined by code of conduct—at most the language advises strongly against personal relationships in the workplace, but given the ties that develop there, it’s tough not to get involved. Two of our dayshift people married each other this past year, and I know of another couple who’re seeing each other even though one of them’s married.”

Daisy made an empathetic sound deep in her throat, and Sara continued. “See, the nightshift plays havoc with your personality and your social life, more so than any other shift. You can’t maintain old friendships, you don’t get to see the nine to five world that the rest of humanity does, and so you end up bonding with those who share your nocturnal clock. You see them, if you’ll pardon the pun, in a different light.”

“Like Grissom?” Daisy asked softly. 

Sara nodded. “Like Grissom. He’s good at camouflage—ninety-seven percent of the time he’s as normal as any guy out there. Then you see him studying bugs. Or blood spatter. Or a ball gag. And that’s when you start to realize that it’s all been a cover for someone who learned a long time ago he was never going to fit in completely with the real world.”

Sara stopped, stricken and wondering if she’d said too much. 

Daisy drew in a deep breath and gave a wry little smile in return. “And you love him because of it, not despite it.”

Sara said nothing, but the bittersweet expression on her face spoke volumes as she cocked her head.

Daisy made a show of polishing one of the pairs of glasses hanging around her neck. “You’re more than lucky then. I wish—" she stopped, bit her lip and shook her head. “Never mind. I really only came back here to see if you and Grissom wanted to take a look at the body and get my formal report on our stripper. Pending tox screenings of course.”

“Yes, I’m pretty sure he’s going to want to follow up on it,” Sara murmured. 

Both women exchanged a last smile, and Daisy made her way through the wings to the exit, leaving Sara to watch Grissom continue to hold his audience.

*** *** ***

“Working hard?” Warrick inquired, looking at Catherine with a soft smirk. She glanced up, eyes flinty, pencil clenched between her teeth.

“Homtimes I HATE Gis’som,” she snapped back around the writing implement. Gently Warrick tugged it from her lips and she yielded the pencil as reluctantly as a puppy letting go of a bone.

“It’s not evaluation time yet is it? I thought we weren’t looking at performance reviews until after sometime in March,” he parked a hip on the desk and kept his gaze on Catherine’s face, just to keep it from wandering to the tantalizing gap of her cleavage.

Catherine sighed, mouth pulling into a tired smirk. “No, not evaluations. I’ve been looking over the expense reports. Grissom’s been paying out of pocket for a lot of things he SHOULD be getting reimbursed for, and he’s not filing the receipts. Also, he’s got some weird ass filing system with a secret shorthand that’s making it impossible to figure out what’s been submitted and what’s pending. I know our initials on some of these—CW, WB, SS—but I have NO idea what some of these other notations are . . .”

“Probably his way of insuring job security,” Warrick teased lightly. 

Catherine made a face. “Yeah, well cryptology isn’t my strong suit, and Lorraine from Accounting has been calling about some request he submitted for a conference in April. If she doesn’t get the paperwork by the end of this week he’s not going to go.”

Warrick thought hard. “So call him. It’s not like this is about a case, and if there’s a deadline, he’s going to appreciate the heads up.”

Catherine thrust out her jaw and gave a tired little headshake, her bangs dangling in her eyes; Warrick fought the impulse to brush them back for her.  
“Yeah I’m going to have to I suppose, even though he’ll either get on my case about getting into his files, or tell me he’s already sent it in—it’s a no win situation here. Between this and that seminar on Saturday, I’m about ready to give up on shooting for that promotion, you know?”

“Heyyy . . . Come on, Catherine, that’s the paperwork talkin’, not you. So you’ve had a little bit of a trial by fire today . . . it’s nothing you can’t handle, right?”

His kind words were delivered in a gruff but tender tone, and Catherine looked up into his green eyes, shyly pleased to see a sparkle there that instinctively she knew was for her alone. She smiled, a quick bright flash.

“Thanks, coach,” she teased back softly. Warrick nodded, rising from the desk and heading for the door. He turned and paused, reaching up and framing himself in it as he looked back at her.

“One thing I’ve seen in my time, Catherine, is that you don’t make supervisor on the big cases; you make it on the track record of a lot of little ones.”

She watched him saunter away, mulling over his advice and noting (not for the first time) what a truly magnificent ass Warrick had—

Catherine blushed, and mentally signed herself up for a front row seat on Saturday.

*** *** ***

The morgue of Sheba, Nevada was a small, green-tiled room with florescent lights. There were no fancy drawers here, so bodies lay on gurneys neatly parked in the walk-in cooler behind a frosted glass door. Daisy was finishing up the last notations on her clipboard when Grissom and Sara stepped in, pulling on smocks. They approached the draped corpse, moving quickly.

“No rush—he’s not going to Wacheski’s Funeral Home until tomorrow. According to his ID, this is Timothy Alan Weldon, twenty-six, from Fresno,California,” she murmured, a hint of sadness in her tone. 

Sara moved to stand near the top of the gurney, looking down at the pale young body. Grissom stationed himself at Sara’s shoulder and looked down at the young man’s throat.

“Cause of death?” he asked softly, studying the grey and purple marks on the neck.

Daisy lightly touched them. “Asphyxiation due to a crushed trachea. His larynx and windpipe were compacted with excessive force by something cylindrical right across it. Not a nice way to die, but in the scheme of things, fairly quick.”

Grissom leaned down to have a closer look; Sara lifted one of the body’s hands, turning it gently to study the palm.

“Defensive wounds?” she asked softly. 

Daisy shook her head, her white hair gleaming in the florescent light. “None that I can see—no bruising, scratches or cuts on his hands or arms. He’s in fine shape, so if he’d known what was coming I’d think he would have put up a fight. Which means . . ."

“--He was taken by surprise,” Grissom finished. He glanced up at Daisy, “You made note of the striations in the wound?”

“Yes, a twisted impression, like you’d find on a rope. I listed it in the report,” she replied with a little sniff.

Grissom shot her an apologetic smile and she briefly smiled back, adding, “But it’s not rope—there were no fibers of any kind in the wound.”

“Just the flake of metal. Curious. Anything else of note?” Grissom intoned.

Daisy bit her lip, pausing.

“Well, yes. I found some pinkish purple lipstick on the body . . .” she admitted reluctantly. Her tone made both of them look up at her and she went a little pink along her cheekbones. Grissom blinked. Daisy coughed with a hint of desperation.

“And where were these smears?”

Daisy flicked the drape back, uncovering the rest of Tim’s body. Sara drew in a sharp breath; Grissom blinked again, more rapidly as all three of them took in the eye-catching sight of the dancer’s namesake.

“Well as we all can see, Not-So-Tiny Tim had an impressive crutch all right," Daisy blurted, “And it’s got Mabelline’s Sins of Youth on it.”

“Wow. He’s been collagen enhanced, hasn’t he?” Sara commented, drawing an annoyed glance from Grissom.

Daisy’s mouth twitched. “To be honest, I can’t be sure. All I DO know is that I was able to get both a sample of the lipstick and some saliva from Tim’s, ah, source of revenue here, so we’re off to a good start. And somebody took his cock ring.”

“His what?” Grissom shot the coroner a sharp look, his embarrassment rising another notch as he reached for the drape to stop Sara from staring. Daisy gently ran a latex-covered finger close to the base of the enormous penis, pointing out a red stripe.

“His cock ring,” Sara announced matter of factly. ”Male strippers make themselves, ummm--tumescent prior to dancing, and keep themselves at maximum volume by restricting the flow of blood via a constrictive band around the penis. Theory is, the bigger the package, the more the grateful audience will tip you . . . or so I’ve heard,” she trailed off as Grissom stared at her silently.

Daisy bit back her grin, but nodded. “Yes indeedy. Of course, after twenty minutes it’s got to come off or blood vessels get damaged.”

“Damaged?” Grissom gave a small shake of his head, as if to dislodge an unpleasant image. Sara lifted her chin and worked very hard on a bland expression. Daisy continued to absently stare at the penis as she thought out loud.

“Although you can get in a lot of . . . dancing, in twenty minutes. Anyway the point is, someone took the thing. It wasn’t with the body, and since we found ejaculate on the carpet, his fellator must have spit, so . . .”

“So we’re looking at two perpetrators,” Grissom sighed. Both women looked at him and he gave a shrug. “Whoever was busy with the lower half of Tim Weldon was setting up the distraction so someone else could come up behind him and kill him.”

“Crime of passion—in more ways than one,” Daisy agreed.

She busied herself re-draping the body and rolling it away as Sara turned to Grissom, catching his expression. She hadn’t seen him in a brown study in a while, and it worried her a little when he turned a slightly hurt gaze her way.

“It will bother me for the rest of the day until I ask,” he grumbled in a very low voice. 

Sara shrugged. “So ask.”

“Sara, exactly how are you so knowledgeable about male strippers and their proclivities?” he asked softly. 

She began taking off her smock, hiding her smile. “Gris-som! I’ve been to at least eight Bachlorette parties in the past few years—three of them for my cousin Sorcha alone. I’ve talked to a few dancers and found out a few things—it’s nothing too freaky.”

He looked only slightly relieved by this, and began to pull his own smock off as Daisy bustled back out from the walk-in, rubbing her hands.

“Cold! Well, you two have a free lunch hour before the Trace talk, so I’d suggest Lulabelle’s, down on Cherubino Drive . They do a veggie pasta there that Joe raves about.”

Grissom checked his watch; Daisy sat down at a small computer station and turned it on. “You’ll have to fend for yourselves though—I’ve got to get this boy’s paperwork done before five or Wacheski will be griping at me.”

*** *** ***

Clem yawned, and finished dressing. She still wasn’t used to the nightshift hours, but going back to sleep was impossible. The clock read three in the afternoon, and sunlight poured into her bedroom, even though the drawn shades.

After a bowl of Ramen noodles and a few sliced peaches she headed out for Laxault High School, bouncing along to the car radio. Once there she parked, and wandered out to the track, where groups of people were already beginning to set up booths and rope off seating. Despite the hive of activity Clem found it easy to spot David and his sister, and she hurried over to them, smiling as Natalie spotted her first. Natalie Phillips had the same dark curly hair as her brother, but in a pageboy cut, and had a sweet sprinkling of freckles across her pudgy nose and cheeks.

“’Lem! ’Lem!” the girl beamed, arms extended for a big hug. Clem returned it affectionately, giving a little extra squeeze before letting her go; Natalie reached up to touch the golden corkscrews of Clem’s hair, a source of endless fascination to her.  
“Still pretty!” she announced. Clem nodded and looked up at David, who slipped one hand on his sister’s shoulder.

“Okay Natty, remember, we have to ask before we touch,” he reminded her softly. Natalie looked crestfallen, but Clem took her hand and brought it back up to the curls, smiling broadly. Natalie broke into a happy grin once more and David sighed.

“You’re as bad as my mother in letting her get away with that,” he warned Clem, but his mild expression held a glint of appreciation through his glasses and Clem gave a shrug. All three of them were dressed in sweats; Natalie in pale pink, Clem and David in traditional grey, although Clem’s shirt advertised a punk band called Cathy and the Catheters, and David’s bore the emblem of the Las Vegas Police Department.

“Natty, will you go get the cooler?” David asked his sister. She nodded, giving him a clumsy hug and trotting off towards the stands, taking her mission very seriously. David watched her go, then turned back to his coworker.

“I don’t know if it’s such a good idea to be here, Clem, if you can’t make the Olympics tomorrow. Not that Natalie and I aren’t grateful, but you know how attached she is to you already, and if you’re a no-show . . ."

Clem held her hands up, pointed to herself and then the ground. For good measure, she scribbled on her whiteboard.

_I’ll BE here, David. Already talked to Ms Willows about being in the second group with you and Grissom the following Saturday. Besides, I think Natalie’s got a great chance at taking her event!_

David flashed his gentle smile and nodded, then looked down at the ground between them as a wave of shyness washed over him. Clem waggled a hand to get his attention once more, and showed him the board again.

_Hey, after this, you and Nat want to come get some ice cream with me over at BR? I hear this month’s flavor is flirty fudge—_

David glanced at her, and was about to nod when Natalie bumped into him, the plastic cooler banging his thigh. He smiled ruefully at his sister and glanced back at Clem, who was reaching for Natalie’s free hand playfully.

“Ah, sure—I could go for something sweet . . .”

*** *** ***

Sara bit her bottom lip again, and chided herself for nibbling yet another coat of color off as she did so. Grissom watched her pace on the stage, muttering to herself, her heels sounding loud on the parquet stage, her hands deep in the pockets of her lab coat. 

 

“Sara, you’re wearing a groove into the wood . . .” he teased softly. She actually glanced down a second, then shot him an arch look, crossing her arms defensively even as she tried to smile. It was a sickly thing, and taking pity on her, Grissom walked over to stand close.

“You know your subject, you have it outlined—just think of them as a roomful of Gregs out there, without the hyperactivity and you’ll do fine,” he murmured down along the crown of her hair. Sara tipped her face up, her brown eyes wide and soft. Grissom wanted to kiss her lashes.

“Maybe it’s not THEM I’m worried about, Grissom,” she replied slowly. 

He gave a thoughtful nod. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No. Yes. Maybe.”

“Sara—"

“I just . . . I want to do you proud, okay? Live up to all the things you’ve told me I’m good at,” came her troubled reply. 

He reached out and rubbed her upper arms with his palms in a quick gesture of comfort aware of the auditorium filling up again.

“You _always_ make me proud, Sara, never doubt that. And Sheba ’s going to get the most thorough explanation of fiber trace they’ve ever had.”

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his glasses, handing them to Sara, who took them with a puzzled expression on her face. 

Grissom spoke softly. “Call them a touchstone. Keep them in your pocket and if you get stuck, fish them out and they’ll buy you a minute or two to re-gather your thoughts. That’s what I use them for, half the time.”

Sara shot him a sharp look and he nodded to confirm it, then glanced at his watch. One last squeeze on her upper arms, and he stepped back into the wings, leaving her alone on the stage.

Sara pocketed the glasses. She looked out over the audience, who had begun to settle down in their seats and look at her expectantly. The middle rows were policemen, several in uniform, but the front ones, at least the ones she could see were an assortment of citizens: old men, a pair of punk girls, a mother and her baby, a man in a garbage collector’s overalls.

She walked forward, swallowing hard. Sara looked down at the script on the lectern, unable to recognize a single word, a single sentence on the page. The audience grew silent, and she glanced up again, across the sea of faces, feeling her own grow hot, feeling lost . . . then her hand strayed into her pocket, and the coolness of glass met her fingertips.

Sara smiled.

“Good afternoon. My name is Sara Sidle and I have the privilege of working at the Las Vegas Crime Lab. I’m here to talk to you this afternoon about a special type of evidence, something you encounter every day . . .”

As she went on, gaining confidence and moving through the overview of the science, Grissom made his way to the back of the auditorium and watched her. A strange, sweet pride welled within him as he studied her graceful stride, her quick commentary from slide to slide. She wasn’t completely at ease, and yet her audience was clearly enthralled, following her presentation with flattering quiet as she discussed the differences between natural and synthetic fiber. Grissom gave a small, pleased smile.

“She’s good,” Joe Morgan observed.

He stood rubbing his eyes, and Grissom nodded. “Yes.”

“Been with you long?” came the next question.

Grissom shot the chief a sidelong glance, trying to see if there was more to the question than the obvious. Joe’s face was mild.

“A while,” Grissom finally replied. He could see Sara calling for volunteers now, pointing at raised hands throughout the audience as Joe turned to look at him.

“It shows.”

Grissom’s glance narrowed, asking his own question, and Joe flashed a grin as he added, “You two work as a team even when it’s something as simple as ordering egg rolls, man. Daisy had you guys pegged from the minute Sara handed you the chopsticks. Now I owe her five bucks, damn it.”

Before Grissom could ask which woman he owed the money to, Joe pointed with his chin towards the stage.

“I bet Daze and I go back almost as long as you two, but she’s so touchy about being older it drives me nuts. How do YOU deal with it?”

Grissom paused, startled by both the openness and intimacy of the question, but Joe sighed, letting his gaze drop to the floor.

“None of my business, I know. You’ll have to forgive me—it’s been a few years since I pulled a double shift and I’m not real good at tact into the twenty-seventh hour.”

Taking pity on him, Grissom spoke up softly.  
“It bothers me sometimes too. Once in a while I realize I was graduating high school when Sara was still drinking from a sippy cup—but it’s not as wide a gap now that we’re both older. And it helps that she’s an extraordinary woman in her own right.”

Joe nodded emphatically. Onstage, Sara was lifting fibers from a cheerleader’s letter jacket while the girl tried to tuck her pom poms and baton out of the way; Grissom felt a flush crossing his face as he recognized her as the supermarket clerk of the night before. He could tell from Sara’s slightly awkward body language that she recognized the clerk too, but was desperately trying to regain her composure. One of the pom poms and the baton clattered to the stage and the audience laughed.

Joe shook his head. “I just thought I’d swing by and let you know that the owner of the CockaDoodle, Fuzzy Pickwick, claims there were no unusual visitors backstage, just the usual traffic of strippers and their assorted significant others. We’re collecting names and alibis now, but it looks like it’s going to be a local thing, which is more of a pain in the ass than an outside job.”

“Sometimes easier—the rumor mill has been known to produce a lead or two,” Grissom observed.

Joe gave a noncommittal grunt, and rubbed his face again. “Once in a while. Listen, I have to catch a few hours of sleep. I’ll call you if anything else comes up, all right?”

Grissom nodded, his focus back on the stage, where Sara was waving for the volunteers to sit down again as she carefully set their fiber samples onto the comparison projector. It was a logical moment for a break, and as the audience began to rise and stretch he came down one of the aisles to the stage, only to be stopped right in front by a spotted claw against his chest. Grissom looked down into the face of a little old woman.

She was definitely frightening. The old woman wore a flowing polyester caftan of lurid purple and green around her dried up tiny frame, and her short curly hair had been dyed an aggressive shade of orange that reminded Grissom of Sara’s soda from the night before. Although her smile was bright, the uniformity of her teeth clearly meant dentures, and as for the rest of her face . . . she looked as if someone had taken a Barbie head and withered it like an Apple doll.

“Hellooo Handsome! You can preserve my crime scene anytime!” she cawed at him, trying to bat her eyes. Her false lashes didn’t co-operate, and Grissom watched her struggle with them a moment.

“I sincerely hope you’re never a part of a crime scene, madam,” he replied, his mother’s lessons on courtesy coming through. The old woman smiled again, her teeth looking as if they belonged to a horse instead of a human.

“Trust me, Hot Stuff, when my time comes, it’s gonna be a crime of passion, if you know what I mean!” she hooted. Grissom tried not to blanch at that ghastly image as her harpy talons clutched the front of his shirt.

“Is there something I can do for you?” the minute the words left his mouth he regretted them; three feet away Grissom could see Sara looking up and searching for him. The old woman tightened her grip.

“Oh there’s a lot you COULD do for me Peaches, but what I really need to know is what you’re doing about Timmy’s murder. Gonna miss that boy--what an ass! What a set of shoulders! And honey he had a HELLUVA big—"

“—Ma’am?” Gently Grissom tried to disengage her claws from his shirt. It was like trying to extricate Figaro from a knit sweater.

“—Personality! God, Sugarboy, call me Molly. Fuzzy and me are co-owners of the CockaDoodle, and we wanna know if you and Miss Brains up there are anywhere near nailing Tim’s killer.”

Grissom glanced up at Sara, who was grinning so broadly at the pair of them that she was in danger of hurting herself. He shook his head and let his fingers gently slide around Molly’s thin wrist.

“It’s an ongoing investigation—Molly—and fully in the hands of the Sheba Police Department, however, everything that can be done is being done at the moment.”

It was a tactful reply, and Grissom finished the sentence at the same time he finally freed himself from the woman’s deathgrip on his shirt. Molly cackled again. She brought her other hand up to pat the side of his face.

“Good answer, Peaches, nice and diplomatic. Well you two get to it then while I go see if there’s any Sanka left up at the refreshment table.” She hobbled past him, one arm reaching back and Grissom started. He glared over at Sara, who was desperately trying not to laugh as he moved over to her, his eyes wide.

“She GOOSED me!” he spluttered in a low, shocked whisper. 

Sara snorted into her palms, turning away from the nearly empty auditorium. “Peaches? Sugarboy? I can’t leave you alone for a MINUTE, can I?” she wheezed, her eyes bright. 

Grissom sucked in his cheeks, looking massively annoyed. “Don’t push it, Miss Brains.”

“Wait until Catherine hears you’ve got a fangirl . . .” came Sara’s chortle. Grissom’s eyes widened, but he didn’t get a chance to plead with her because Sara suddenly bent forward, examining the two fibers on the comparison mount on the table.

She looked up at him, her expression troubled.  
“Grissom? Um, out of those random samples I took from the audience? We’ve got a fiber match to one of the ones we found on the carpet near Tim’s body.”


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

 

“Yes, yes, o-kay, I’ll take care of it. I brought the meatloaf for dinner break. And the vitamins. Yeah, love you and the Terror too, Mom. Gotta go.”

Standing in the lab, Greg flicked his cell phone off and gave a deep sigh, staring at the little silver receiver for a moment before dropping it into his lab coat pocket. He fretted a bit; normally he would have laughed his mother’s paranoia off, but he’d been feeling it too, of late. He let his gaze stray to the calendar on the wall, and worried a further moment as one date in particular leaped out at him, memories washing through him in a mix of embarrassment and pride.

THAT date.

Pocketing the phone, he stepped closer to the calendar and touched it, not wanting to remember, and helpless to avoid the kaleidoscope of the past: The deafening beat of the bass line, the scent of Curve cologne, Sondra’s mouth laughing against his as the two of them crawled under the bed looking for her shoe . . .

A tap on his shoulder made him jump; Nick shot him an amused look as he waggled a clipboard at him.  
“Spooked you, Greggo,” he observed. 

Greg shook his head, regaining composure quickly, striving for normality. “No, not at all. So what’s up?”

“Grissom asked me to make up the softball roster this year and I’m checking to see if you’re still willing to take right field.”

Greg tried to peek over the edge of the clipboard, but Nick shook his head, turning it away from him.  
“Who’s in the lineup this year?” Greg demanded, “Because I am NOT going to be the only one lugging sports equipment on my free time.”

Nick smirked a little. “Wuss— dragging a few bats and some catcher’s gear around is NOT what I call a major workout, dude. And the lineup’s pretty much the same as last year’s with a few changes here and there. Grissom’s coaching and catching, Warrick and I are alternating pitching, Sara’s first, I’ve got shortstop, Clem’s second, Bobby’s on third and Archie and Hodges are alternating for center and left field. You and Catherine are right field. Jacqui said she’d keep score if we kept her stocked up with Mountain Dew.”

Greg blinked. “Hodges plays softball?”

Nick nodded, his face a bit perplexed. “Yeah, that’s what he claims anyway. We’ll see once we get practicing. So, you in?”

“Yeah—hey wait, you said Clem had second base? How did she rate infield over me? That’s bogus, she’s an intern!” Greg protested as Nick penciled something in on the clipboard.

He looked up and flashed a brilliant grin at the other man. “Ringer, Greggo. Clem played varsity last year. Anyway, we’ve got our first practice in two weeks, so buy yourself some cleats and start breakin’ them in, man. Oh, and a cup—Grissom’s checking this year.”  
Greg winced.

*** *** ***

Sara was never sure how she managed to get through the rest of her lecture on fibers, but when it finally ended, the applause from the audience startled her. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Grissom and Joe Morgan quietly talking to the clerk, and leading her out of the auditorium. Sara stepped down from the stage and greeted a circle of eager questions patiently.

“How much of a single fiber do you need to work with?” someone asked her.

“Yeah, and how can you tell a car fiber from a regular house carpet fiber?” came another query.  
Before Sara could even begin answering, she felt the hook of a raptor claw on her wrist and looked into the wrinkled smile of Molly.

“Say, you and that bearded hottie an item, honey?”  
she demanded. 

Sara blushed, and the housewife in the group laughed.

“Come on, Molly, put your libido in park for a while and ask her a serious question!”

The group chuckled at this and Molly joined in, cawing like a crow, good-natured enough to laugh at herself. 

Sara patiently answered the questions all around. Gradually people drifted away, and when the group was down to the two of them, Sara felt the old woman’s hand on her arm again.

“Well you ARE the Einstein of the pair, ain’t ya?” she demanded admiringly.

Sara managed a crooked smile that Molly answered. “Grissom’s pretty smart too,” she defended, only to get the full flash of dentures in return.

“Oh yeah, I’m sure Sugarboy’s got a lot in the brains department too as long as someone feeds him regular and makes sure his shoes match,” Molly sighed. “But he’s a man, and that automatically puts a few crimps on his think box. Nothing against ‘em, I love men a lot, but when it comes to out-thinking a woman, it doesn’t happen very often. Like around here. Joe’s a good police chief, but it’s Daisy who shows him what the clues add up to half the time, and that’s the God’s honest truth.”

Sara blinked a little; Molly’s tone was quietly serious, and her old eyes were bright as she stared up at Sara.

“We will find Tim’s murderer,” Sara murmured. Molly sighed and nodded.

“I hope so. He was a good boy. Dumb about lovin’ one gal too many sometimes, but sunny-natured and a lot of fun to tease. I’ll miss him.”

Sara patted Molly’s hand, feeling the cool bony fingers tighten for a second in a spasm of grief; that little gesture reminded her that the pale still body in Daisy’s walk-in mattered to someone, and she cleared her throat, deeply touched by the woman’s pang of pain. 

Molly let go and shook her head, her garishly orange hair bright in the auditorium lighting. “So—about my earlier question, Genius Girl—you and Peaches sucking face?”

Sara blushed to the roots of her hair, particularly when a pair of familiar hands dropped on her shoulders from behind.

Grissom’s mild tone spoke up. “We’re engaged, actually.”

Molly snorted, sounding like a donkey in mid-bray. “Ain’t it always the way—see a hunk of dessert and it’s already on someone else’s plate. Ah well, I’m no man-rustler, even though Sugarboy here is quite the flirt. Just keep me and Fuzzy up to date on what you find, and for God’s sake I hope you’re not in that wine-colored room over at the Wayside. Been more babies conceived in that one than all the other bedrooms in Sheba combined you know."

Both Grissom and Sara blinked, stunned, as Molly slowly creaked away.

“We are in so much trouble—“ Sara breathed.

*** *** ***

By the time Sara came out of her shower, Grissom was already in bed, finishing up the last of the crossword in the Sheba Evening Star. He set it aside and smiled up at Sara, patting the mattress next to him. She climbed under the covers and propped her pillow up, sighing as she leaned back against it. Both she and Grissom were in their respective halves of the one set of flannel pajamas.

“I miss the furball.”

“I'm sure he’s fine at the vet’s. Probably terrorizing all the other boarders there,” Grissom murmured absently. 

Sara could picture that and grinned a little, then crossed her arms over her head for a moment. Seeing his opportunity, Grissom shifted and laid the back of his head on her stomach, looking up at her. Sara laughed, and dropped one hand to stroke his beard.

“So, what are we going to do to stop from conceiving any babies here in the notorious Burgundy room of the Wayside Motel of Sheba Nevada?” she asked. 

Grissom closed his eyes, smiling. “Tell me a story, Sara. About when you were a child.”

She blinked for a moment, looking down into his face, then her expression shifted to a crooked smile.  
“Welll . . . let me think. There was the time I stuck my hand down the throat of a Great White shark . . .”

“That,” Grissom murmured, “I HAVE to hear about.”

*** *** ***

_Sara glared at Tom. It was easy to do, since by now it was almost the only expression she ever threw at her brother these days. He stuck his tongue out in return and then spun to waggle his denim-covered rear at her in further insult before loping away and down the stairs._

_“You are SUCH a butt muncher, Tom Sidle!” she yelled loudly over the sound of Duran Duran that filled her room. Next to her Sorcha shot a bored look over the top of her latest issue of Tiger Beat._

_“Yeah yeah, shake it, bake it, just don’t BREAK it, Tom-Tom,” she taunted, then turned her attention back to the contest highlighted on the front cover and pondered her chances of winning a date with George Michael._

_Sara picked up her can of Orange Crush and swigged it in a moody way as she folded her long, skinny frame into a slouch on the bedroom floor, glancing at her reflection in the mirror on the closet door. She brushed her waist-length curly hair back, wondering if she could talk her cousin into ironing it._

_And she wished she’d hurry up and get IT, so Sorcha wouldn’t be all smug about being a woman now. Sara looked down at her flat chest and sighed before speaking up again._

_“I knew he’d take the last of the Fig Newtons, I just KNEW it. You’re SO lucky not to have a brother, you know? I bet he’ll end up spying on us all night now—“ Sara gloomily predicted._

_Sorcha looked up and blew a bubble the size of a volleyball with her gum before answering. “Boys are such a pain. We need guys who are more mature, Sara. Like David Lee Roth.”_

_Sara looked at her cousin and made a sour face, then slowly got to her feet. She’d felt achy and annoyed all day but Hungry like the Wolf was cheering her up, and she danced around lightly, feeling a little better as she did so._

_“Tom’s not a boy, he’s a snot. A big, ugly dangling green wad of snot,” Sara growled. “And anyway, I don’t think it’s fair that Mom left him in charge tonight when we’re just fine on our own. It’s not like mad killers with axes are going to break in or anything . . .”_

_Sorcha looked up, her dark eyes slightly distressed. She shook her head in a troubled way, her long scrunchie-tied topknot flicking as she did so.  
“Don’t talk like that and give me the creeps, okay? It’s already getting dark and I don’t want to start thinking about stuff like that."_

_Sara moved to the tape deck and punched a button; the cassette came to a stop and she flipped it over. Outside the window, the last rays of the setting sun spilled over the water, bleeding orange all the way to shore. Rough wind was already whipping up, and the off-shore current pulled the water’s surface in a rough churn of white caps and mare’s tails all along the waveline. Sara stared out at the water a moment._

_“Oh shit!“ she breathed, forgetting that it meant a full night of restriction to use the S word if Tom reported her. She bounced over to the window and peered out, pulling up the sash to lean for a closer look. Sorcha got up, reluctantly leaving the collection of nail polish bottles on the floor to join her._

_“Something’s washing up on the beach. Over by the rocks, Sorch. It looks like a body.”_

_“Ewwwww!!” her cousin screeched, backing away and waving her long skinny arms in front of her, “That’s SO sick and gross, Sara! Like the last time, oh shit!”_

_“You weren’t even HERE the last time,” Sara retorted, her voice quavering as she thought furiously about the protocol. This stretch of Tomales was the corner between the Bay and the Pacific, and as such was prone to a fair share of marine corpses: gray whale infants, shark-mauled sea lions, the occasional dolphin or water-logged fisherman’s dog._

_And sometimes, a fisherman._

_The last one had washed up four months back, a poor bloated hulk as bleached and pale as a peeled log. Sara remembered the police and coroner loading him up into a station wagon while others held back the curious crowds and the news van reporters looked serious while talking about the dangers of drinking while fishing. Detective Stone, an older guy with a huge nose had complimented her good eyesight._

_Sorcha was still hopping around in her jerky dance of grossed-out shock, but Sara ignored her and darted away from the window._

_“Mom and Dad’s room. They’ve got binoculars," she called._

_They ran into the room down the hall, Sorcha colliding into her cousin’s skinny spine as Sara snagged the lenses from her father’s dresser and spun around. Within a few seconds she was back in her room, focusing the binoculars carefully. Sorcha’s mutterings had dropped to whimpers as Sara impatiently swung the lenses to and fro._

_“Go it. Sort of grey and white . . . not up on the beach yet, but almost there. You know, it looks more like one of the calves, but it’s waayy late in the season for one.”_

_“So it’s not, like a guy this time?” Her cousin demanded, sounding slightly disappointed at wasting good drama._

_Sara shrugged her thin shoulders. “Won’t know until we go look huh?”_

_They remembered windbreakers and the emergency flashlight as they tiptoed past the big living room where they could hear Tom on the phone. From the amount of smoochy sounds Sara figured it was his new girlfriend, Marlene, or Marlou or something._

_Tom spent far too long hogging the line these days as far as Sara was concerned, and his make-out technique was pretty gross too. After a few spying sessions she still couldn’t understand why anyone would want her brother’s tongue in their mouth in the first place._

_Sorcha tugged on her sleeve, pulling her from these thoughts and towards the back door of the kitchen. “Come ON, Sare! If it’s a dead thing we have dibs on it—“ she reminded her cousin impatiently._

_Sara nodded, and they headed out, closing the door quietly behind them._

_The wind was stronger now, making gusts along the beach and blowing debris along the tide line. Sara took the lead, head bent low, feeling her hair whip wildly. Gloomily she predicted at least half an hour combing all the knots out as she marched down the sand, Sorcha in her wake. They made the far end of the beach in fifteen minutes approaching the dark mass warily. The sun had set, and the faint purple grey of twilight softened the edges of everything. Three ghostly pelicans soared in a line across the water as Sara turned the beam on the huge carcass now rolling with every wave along the shore. A stench blew into their faces._

_“SHIIIITTTTTTT---“ Sorcha bellowed out, but the wind whipped it away, thinning it out in the gusts. The flashlight beam shook, putting the gruesome remains in a strobe effect as the light bounced off a gaping black maw filled with glistening teeth longer than steak knives. Sara and Sorcha backed up, colliding in a tangle of flailing limbs, falling to the sand. The flashlight bounced out of Sara’s nerveless fingers to spring up and roll down---_

_\--Right into the dead shark’s open jaws._

_Sara struggled a moment in the cold sand, shoving Sorcha off of her and fighting for breath as she tried to get her panic under control. Sorcha had no such focus and sucked in air, preparing to scream once more when Sara roughly clapped a sandy hand over her cousin’s mouth._

_“Shut UP!” she hissed, squeezing tightly and giving Sorcha a shake. Whimpers leaked out around her thin hand as her cousin attempted to peel the fingers away, but Sara was stronger and held on with renewed firmness. “Just shut up, Sorch! You keep yelling like that and Tom’s going to be down here and we’d be in trouble for sneaking out and we have to get the flashlight and get back up to the house do you HEAR me?”_

_Sorcha nodded, her gaze still locked on the dead monster less than five feet in front of them. The wind was making the looser sand up the beach fly and sting around them. Sara risked letting go of her cousin’s mouth, absently wiping the lipgloss now covering her palm onto her windbreaker. Shivering, they both looked at the shark._

_The huge carcass lay on its side, one milky eye clouded over, jaws agape, the ludicrous flare of the flashlight beaming slightly sideways out of its open maw. Sara dimly took note of the huge hollow chunks along the flank of the mangled beast and recognized them as savage bites from other sharks. She shakily got to her feet, brushing sand from her legs and trying to get her galloping pulse under control._

_Sorcha stayed in the sand._

_“It’s dead, right? Totally dead? God, it’s longer than your mom’s dining room table, Sara! Shit, it MOVED!” Sorcha screeched._

_Sara fought the urge to smack her cousin and stepped closer to the shark. The waves were still making it shift a little, and the wind carried the raw, fishy stench straight into their faces._

_Sara took a breath and squatted down. “I have to get the flashlight.”_

_“What?”_

_“I have to get it back--that’s a Victorinox Elite and Dad paid almost a hundred and twenty bucks for it. He’ll KILL me if he finds out I took it without asking---“ Sara pleaded over her shoulder._

_Sorcha stared at her without blinking, and Sara trembled a little. Finally her cousin whimpered and shot a hand out, encircling Sara’s thin ankle, right between the hemline of her jeans and her sock._

_“You are fucking in-SANE Sara Sidle! I’m NOT letting you stick your hand in a shark’s mouth for a stupid flashlight! If you get bitten and die Uncle Will will KILL ME!!”_

_Sara lunged. Her arm darted forward, moving jerkily to avoid the teeth and her fingers touched the flashlight, but Sorcha yanked on her ankle. Sara tumbled a bit, her shoulder hitting the shark’s nose. She felt her forearm slice against the teeth and jumped back, feeling the fiery pain burn even as her fingers slid around the barrel of the flashlight, gripping it tightly. Pulling back hard, she landed butt-first in the wet sand, panting with fear, her arm stinging, the Elite in her shaking fingers. A dull throb deep along her lower back rolled up, and she dropped her head between her knees._

_Sorcha let go and sat up, making furious attempts to hold back crying. Sara lifted her head, hair blowing wildly around her, face almost blank with shock. For a weird, timeless moment neither girl spoke, both utterly stunned; finally Sara whispered hoarsely.  
“I’m . . . bleeding.”_

_“Sara, God, your arm! It bit you—"_

_“No. Not my arm,” she turned to look at her cousin, who blinked stupidly for a moment. Sara stood up, self-consciously draping her free hand over the crotch of her jeans. She was aware of other blood dripping down her wrist as well, and shot Sorcha a pleading look; instantly her cousin jumped up, sliding a supportive arm around her. They looked at each other, and in that moment Sara felt the kinship, the single compassionate welcome into womanhood beaming in her cousin’s eyes._

_Then Sorcha snorted. “You are fucking NUTS, Sara!"_

_“Ooooohhh! You said the Eff word!” Sara shot back, a little dizzy, and on the verge of giggles._

_“So what if I did? Damn it, you stuck your fucking hand in a fucking shark’s mouth to get a fucking flashlight and fucking lived to tell about it!” Sorcha snapped back, and at that moment they both lost it._

_Laughing like lunatics, they staggered back up to the house, lurching to and fro on the sand, leaving the black bulk of the beached shark behind them in the darkness._

*** *** ***

Grissom looked up at Sara, utterly entranced, eyes bright. She smiled down at him, and continued to stroke his hair.

“How big was it?” he finally demanded, and Sara gave a little shake of her head.

“I don’t know—probably about eight feet, all told. Sorcha and I did first aid on my cut arm, and we decided we’d tell Tom and my folks about the shark in the morning, but when we got up the next day, it was gone. I guess the high tide took it back out into the bay. They saw the marks on the beach though.”

“And your arm?”

“Scratched, but not deep. We got it cleaned out and I have the faintest little scar, right here," she ran a finger down the front of her right forearm.

Grissom pulled the arm down and kissed it lightly. Sara’s smile widened at the touch of his mouth against her skin.

“So you became a woman through a bloodletting ceremony—very tribal,” Grissom commented, letting his lips linger on her.

“If I had told my mother I never would have heard the end of it,” Sara confided, rolling her eyes. “She would have insisted on some sort of rite of passage ritual, and made me wear a shark tooth or something for a while—no, better just to call it a co-incidence.”

“Do you think it was?”

Sara paused as Grissom sat up, raising his head from her lap and shifting to curl up next to her. A thousand different replies flittered through her head, from the flippant to the apathetic, but when his hand slid across her stomach and rose up, cupping her breast she sighed deeply.

“I don’t know. Maybe fear and stress triggered it, maybe I’d started and didn’t realize it until after I’d faced the shark—but after all this time, I can’t really know for sure. All I can say is that it was pretty . . . unforgettable.”

Grissom smiled, and stretched out, arm encircling her gently. 

Sara lay in his embrace; hand on his chest, adding, “I just hope MY daughter doesn’t ever have to go through something that traumatic. I mean, I still get teased by Sorcha every now and then, especially when she comes back to Ocean Inn . . ."

“Your daughter?” Grissom intoned lightly, tightening his grip as Sara squirmed, pressing her face to his chest for a long, embarrassed moment.

The moments ticked by and finally she sighed, “It was a Freudian slip, okay? Just a general commentary, not a specific indicative of any future plan on my part, so don’t panic.”

“I’m not panicking, Sara, merely clarifying. And for the record, I never actually considered having a daughter.”

Sara raised her head cautiously and forced herself to glance up at him, taking in his slightly troubled expression. She lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug.

“I never considered having any kids, not before I met you—okay, that didn’t sound any better. I’m trying to say that I don’t need to have kids, Grissom. We’re already straight on that. Right?”

He still looked faintly perturbed, and reached a hand to stroke the side of her face in a gentle touch. Then Grissom sighed, a heavy, hollow sound that made his chest rise under Sara’s chin.

“Yes. It’s going to be a challenge enough just to get through the next three months as it is—however . . . .”

Sara eyed him warily; he swallowed for a moment.

“ . . . However?” came her prompt. 

He narrowed his speculative blue gaze. “However, I’d like to put a moratorium on this discussion until we’re both interested in possibly revisiting the idea.”

Sara sat up, her eyes locked on his, her jaw working back and forth as she tried to consider what Grissom had just suggested.

“Revisit the idea? I thought we’d already _made_ a decision here, Gil. We’re not having children.”

He kept his gaze on hers. “Is that what you want?”

“I thought that was what YOU wanted. In fact, I seem to recall you were pretty adamant about it,” she protested, blinking.

“No, I said I didn’t know _how_ to be a father—that’s a little different,” he countered carefully, watching her arch one of her elegant eyebrows at him.

“Semantics,” she scoffed, but not as obstinately this time.They continued to stare at each other by the light of the gas fireplace.

Grissom thinned his lips before he finally spoke.  
“Sara . . . things change. Every time I think I’ve got my life fixed and locked down, something happens. Emotions rise up, circumstances turn, and when I try to return to what I was I find I can’t do it. If anyone had predicted a year ago that I would actually be living with YOU, the unobtainable object of my desires—I would have recommended them for a hallucinogen drug test.”

That made her grin for a moment as she tried to picture it. Grissom cupped her face in both of his big hands, tipping it up to look at her, his expression twisted. “I had no hope that anyone would EVER understand the darker half of me, Sara, much less you, the woman I care most about on this planet. But it happened. You strode out of my fantasies and into my reality. I still marvel at that, still get amazingly aroused at the fact that you’re the sweetheart of my games in actuality. So I for one, am well aware of how one’s life can change for the better, Acushla.”

Sara pursed her beautiful mouth, blinking away the prism of tears that threatened to fall. Grissom bent forward and kissed her lips, then each eye before pulling back and shaking his head.

“Therefore, I realize that whatever positions I took prior to falling in love with you aren’t always solid now, Sara. I’m not saying we NEED to have children, I’m saying . . . the thought of having them isn’t so—intimidating, or unacceptable as it once might have seemed.”

She said nothing for a long, long moment, and spent the time staring into Grissom’s face. Sara sighed.  
“Okay then—worst case scenario. What if I wanted a lot of kids? Like, four—or more?” came her slightly quavery croak. His eyebrows went up, but he merely swallowed.

“All at once?”

“No!” the laugh bubbled up out of her at his utterly startled expression, “I’m not a guinea pig, GEEZ, Grissom!”

“I don’t know—the one at a time method seems sort of inefficient. Seems smarter to me to have them all at the same time and get it over with in one big brood,” he countered, relaxing a tiny bit.

Sara rolled her big brown eyes and pulled her face out of his hands. “What if . . . I never want ANY kids, Gil?”

“Then we’ll have to settle for Figaro,” he responded softly, managing a smirk. 

Sara drew in a deep breath and cocked her head, the corner of her mouth pulling back as she let her glance sweep over him. “Okay then . . . Can we agree to set this aside for a while then? Because you’re confusing the hell out of me, Grissom. Half the time I’m totally happy with the way things are, and the other half, I’m wondering when it’s all going to fall apart. I love you so much but I still have a hard time believing this life with you is so . . . balanced. You’re you, and I’m me, and in the middle of us we’ve got this nurturing, great THING going on. It’s still pretty overwhelming you know.”

“Agreed. And I’m not trying to put any sort of pressure on you, Sara. The truth is that I don’t know what I want in the future, aside from you in it WITH me,” Grissom murmured with resolute honesty.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

 

Grissom kept his gaze on Sara’s back as he followed her into the CockaDoodle. It was about three in the afternoon, and Joe Morgan’s page had come only a few minutes before, interrupting their leisurely meal at Lulabelle’s diner where Grissom had been enchantedly watching Sara scarf down a mountain of mashed potatoes roughly the size of Everest while she made faces at him.

“Quick metabolism, you know that,” she grumbled self-consciously.

He nodded, slightly dazed. “Remind me never to take you to Idaho.”

“Hey,” she waved a full fork at him, “Unless they have truckloads of chives and sour cream, the state is safe, okay?”

Now they were passing through the gold and green interior lounge, making their way past the stages and through the unmarked doors to the dressing rooms. The entire place was quiet except for the hum of industrial vacuum cleaners in the front lobby.

Inside, the small shabby room was pretty much the same as it had been on the night of Tim’s murder, and Grissom gave Joe Morgan a nod of greeting.

He nodded back and looked at Daisy. 

“Glad you could make it.”

Sara nodded.

Joe paced for a moment, then looked at the three of them, then began to speak. “So— the only suspect we have right now is Nell Perkins, aged seventeen. Fiber from her jacket links her to the crime scene, but surprise, surprise, she was dating Tim, so of course she’d be at the CockaDoodle backstage to see him,” Joe rumbled tiredly.

Daisy shot him a slightly exasperated look that he ignored as he continued. “And that true love extended to ah, personal attentions that would have left lipstick in incriminating places. But interesting as that is, it’s not proof of a crime.”

“It’s evidence she was here,” Daisy countered.

Sara nodded. “True, but if Nell was down between Tim’s legs, she couldn’t have been crushing his windpipe, which means—"

“—Which means logically, we have a second person on the scene,” Grissom murmured. He studied the site a moment, then pulled the chair over and placed it in front of the pillar. “Joe, you be Tim. Sit here. Daisy, you be Nell . . ."

Both of the Sheba residents shot Grissom incredulous looks; he shook his head impatiently. “It’s a re-enactment, nothing personal. I’m just trying to figure out the logistics of the murder here.”

Joe sat down, eyeing Grissom warily. Daisy reluctantly got on her knees almost a foot away from Joe, but Grissom didn’t seem concerned. He glanced around and stepped behind the pillar.

“Sara, what do you see?”

“Tim and Nell, otherwise occupied,” she spoke up thoughtfully.

Grissom reached around the pillar, his arms appearing on either side, just above Joe’s shoulders. “So if I was the murderer, I could have been hiding behind the pillar here, and when they were distracted, I made my move . . . but with what? Something metallic, and twisted—a curtain rod?”

“No windows—and no dressing booths either,” Daisy looked around, her face pink as she continued kneeling. Joe had a hand over his face; Sara stepped forward, thinking hard.

“What about the baton?”

Everyone looked up at her, and Grissom flashed a tiny, personal smile of amazed delight before nodding.

“It fits. Metal, twisted design, and Nell definitely had one with her at the lecture and at the store . . ."

“The store? You saw her at the supermarket?” Joe asked.

It was Grissom’s turn to go a bit pink, but he nodded, coming around the pillar. “We stopped in around two AM, and she had the baton with her behind the counter,” he recalled, rubbing his chin and concentrating.

Sara nodded in agreement, crossing her arms over her chest as she spoke up. “She seemed a little upset at the time, but I wasn’t paying a lot of attention to her. What did she say in questioning?”

“That she’d seen Tim that night; that they’d spent some time together but that he’d been fine before she’d left. I can get a warrant for the baton, but there’s bound to be a lot of prints on it,” Joe mused, still looking at Daisy on her knees in front of him.

Grissom smiled. “The only ones we’ll want are on the ends, near the rubber caps. That’s where the killer had to be gripping it to get the best leverage against Tim’s throat.”

“Makes sense,” Daisy admitted softly, thinking about it.

Sara walked around the pillar and looked carefully at it, eye level. When Grissom looked at her, he nodded and her grin widened as they made a perfect unspoken connection.

“I’ll get my kit and see if we’ve got some epithelials on the bricks here,” she murmured.

*** *** ***

David patiently handed Natalie a napkin and refrained from wiping her chin for her; Clem could see how much he wanted to, and how he knew he shouldn’t. The three of them sat on a stone bench outside the ice cream parlor, eating cones and generally having a good time. Natalie in particular was in a bubbly mood and kept bouncing on the bench.

“I beat Marky. You saw me Daybid, I beat Marky again!” she announced for the fourth time, delighting in this triumph.

David looked over the top of his sister’s head at Clem and shared a slightly weary smile with her.   
Clem nodded.

“Just remember, Nat, the important thing is doing your best.”

“Beating Marky,” she agreed.

David sighed and pushed his glasses up by his nosepiece while Clem hid a grin. Slowly they walked to David’s Volvo; Natalie climbed into the front passenger seat, picking up her Barbie case and losing herself in fashion choices while David leaned against the door and shot Clem a grateful look.

“Thank you for running the stopwatch again. It will make a difference for us tomorrow to have as many familiar faces around as possible. Natty tends to lose focus if she doesn’t have people she knows keeping her on task.”

Clem nodded to back up her understanding expression, and David managed a small half-grin in return. They looked at each other for a moment longer, and Clem impulsively reached for his hand, squeezing his cool fingers with her own, warmer ones. David blushed.

“So . . . tomorrow?” he stammered a bit. Clem nodded, white teeth flashing as she reached up and tweaked his nose, then turned, sauntering off across the parking lot with a bounce to her stride. David watched her go as long as he dared, then walked around to the driver’s side, climbing in, and checking to see if Natalie was buckled up. She looked at him, a grin under her snub nose.

“Clem come ‘morrow?”

“Yes.”

“Like Clem,” Natalie decided.

David nodded.

*** *** ***

Grissom finished up his final comments about the life cycle of the blowfly to enthusiastic applause, and seemed startled that the audience over his shoulder was still with him even as he pinned the last insect onto the big Styrofoam board. The big rolling blackboard off to the side was covered with his strong handwriting and arrows pointing from various mathematical formulas to points along weekly increments.

He dusted his hands off, looked out at the audience and politely called for questions. Only a few came up, mostly points of clarification, and after a few minutes he watched the group disperse, walking out in twos and threes. With alarm, he recognized one figure hobbling towards him, but it was too late to retreat. Grissom put on a patient smile as Molly gave him the once over, taking her time; he felt it was like being sized up by a raptor in red lipstick.

“Nice work with the bugs, Sweet Stuff, although I know ALL about maggots. I was married three times you know.”

He managed a weak smile. Molly sidled closer, looking up at him, her gaze sharp. “So entomology sizzles your bacon, huh? Well, crime fighting takes all kinds, though none of your fancy timelines are gonna find Tim’s killer. No, you need to know about the club and the patrons and the dancers, Honeyboy. Fuzzy thinks he knows who comes and goes into CockaDoodle, but he’s too besotted on the mas-cu-line pulchritude to see who’s zooming who. Come buy me a drink, Doctor Handsome, and I’ll fill you in on the night of the murder.”

Grissom shot a look around hopefully for Sara, but knew she was probably still at the lab, so he gave Molly a short nod as he fished out his cell phone. She cackled, sounding like a chicken being strangled.

“Checking in already, boy, looks like Miss Einstein has you trained good!”

“It’s just considerate,” he justified, slightly annoyed at the old woman’s bright-eyed mirth. Molly reached up and patted his arm.

“Course it is," she added in a gentle undertone, and in that moment Grissom felt a tiny hint of affection for her. While she might be crude and outspoken, Molly clearly had a firm grip on life and wasn’t about to let it go easily.

After he left a message, he walked Molly across the street to a small coffee shop. She eased herself into one of the red leather booths and sighed.

“I remember being taller," came her complaint. Grissom sat across from her and waited until the waitress came over to take their order. Molly looked up at the girl and stiffened a little.

“Estelle—" she greeted her, a little coolly.

The waitress gave a nod just as formal. “Miss Molly. What can I get for you?”

“Oh a chocolate egg cream I guess. What about you, Doctor Grissom?”

Grissom was so startled at being addressed properly that he paused a moment, and looked at the waitress for help. She waited. He realized something about her seemed familiar even as he replied, “Coffee please, black.”

“Anything else?”

He glanced at his companion, who shook her head, her wrinkles waving a little. When Estelle left, Molly slid her gnarled hands onto the Formica tabletop and sighed.

“Never rains but it pours. That one’s a bad business you know.”

“No I don’t know, and did I hear you actually call me Doctor Grissom?”

Molly nodded reluctantly, her horsey dentures flashing out. “Needed to make it clear we weren’t on a date. Word gets around in Sheba, and an old reprobate like me has a reputation to uphold. I only date ‘em young, Peaches. Tempting as you are, that’s my rule. Over twenty-six and I pass.”

Grissom blinked, trying not to let the slightly lurid images of Molly on a date with Tim Dickens taunt his thoughts.

She laughed a little. “Oh cut me some slack! Truth is, I’m a softie for most of the dancers here—they’re young and need someone to talk to part of the time, someone not interested in what they’ve got between their legs. I give ’m advice, encouragement, support—sort of like a stripper’s den mother I guess. Fuzzy runs the books and moons after them, but I keep most of the personnel in line.”

Grissom leaned forward, brows drawing together as he studied Molly’s serious expression. He gave a slow nod. “So . . . tell me about CockaDoodle’s, Miss Molly.”

She leaned back a little, thinking for a few seconds and spoke up again, more slowly. “It got built just after the Second World War—sort of a roadhouse that grew up, I suppose. Belonged to my second husband Roy’s family for a long time, and back in the late fifties it was strictly a girlie house. I worked the bar, and after hours I worked Roy. Guess I was good at it because we got hitched within a few months. The marriage was a dear thing—Roy had only one leg and a bad heart, but he made me laugh all the time. We planned on kids, but before that could happen he had two heart attacks within a month and the second one killed him.”

Grissom slid a hand over to her little wrinkled one on the countertop, covering it.

She sighed. “Anyway, I inherited it, and did my best to keep it going. Got a reputation as a semi-scarlet businesswoman back in the day when most gals were still being Betty Crocker. Around the end of the eighties it became po-litically incorrect to have women degrading themselves by taking their clothes off for money, so in the interest of equal opportunity I switched the gender of the entertainment—Whooooeeee! Gawd, the housewives and secretaries and office managers and nurses and waitresses came outta the woodwork by the dozens! Seemed like every gal in this county had been waiting for a stallion show, and the money started pouring in.”

Grissom managed a wry smile; Molly laughed. Estelle returned with her hands full and set the drinks down in front of them curtly. Molly watched her go again, shaking her head.

“She’s the Perkins girl’s cousin. Two of them hate each other like spit, and Tim loved playing each of them off the other. Got to be quite the little drama until I told him to choose one or I’d fire him.”

Grissom shot a look over his shoulder at the retreating waitress and when he looked back at Molly she was nodding.

“Suspected her myself, since Tim picked Nell, but I didn’t see any way to back it up. Estelle works most nights, and I’m sure she’s got lots of witnesses who’ll say she was here the whole time.”

Grissom stared at his coffee, and thought furiously.

*** *** ***

Greg tried to ignore the ringing of the cell phone as he finished the last of the Colton case DNA samples, but it wasn’t easy, and finally he popped it up to his ear as he set the last of the pipettes down on a clean surface.

“Sanders . . .”

“Gregory," the voice, cool and cultured made the hairs on the back of his neck go up; Greg’s grip on the phone tightened.

“Patricia. This is . . . unexpected,” he managed in a fairly civilized tone. The voice snorted a little in his ear.

“For both of us I am sure. Gregory, I’m calling you because I’m concerned. Sondra moved out of the house a month and a half ago.”

“Not my business, not my problem,” Greg snapped back, trying to keep his voice low. Warrick sauntered in, hands full of files, oblivious.

“Greg, have you got any results for Catherine and me on that shooting out by the Sphere?”

“Gregory, she’s . . . stopped taking her Lithium. And she was talking a great deal about Wyatt before she left.”

“What?” Greg demanded, voice sharp. Warrick looked up, slightly annoyed, only to be waved away as Greg spun in his chair, gripping the cell phone more tightly. “Patricia, where is she?”

“I . . . I don’t know. That’s the truth, Gregory. She packed up on a weekend Dwight and I were off to Los Angeles, and left a message that she’d be fine, that she’d get in touch with us soon. That was six weeks ago, and the pharmacy tells me she hasn’t picked up any of her prescriptions since Christmas. Dwight thinks I’m overreacting, but I just got the last credit card bill and—well, Sondra’s charged a fortune for baby goods.”

“Greg you okay?” Warrick asked softly.

Greg stared up at him blankly as the voice in his ear continued,“I know we’ve never gotten along well, Gregory, but when all is said and done, I AM Wyatt’s grandmother. And I just felt---you ought to be aware of the situation.”

“Yeah. Okay. I’m glad you got to me so quickly,” he muttered sarcastically. ”Do me a favor then, Patricia and if you find out anything about where she is, call me. Day or night, you understand?” Greg urgently intoned. “But don’t call the house, call here, on the cell phone, you got that? I’m not going to have you freaking out my mom over this.”

“All right. Oh and thank you for your concern over my daughter’s welfare," came the dry retort before the buzz of a disconnection echoed in his ear.

Greg clenched his jaw for a long moment as Warrick watched him, then deliberately pasted a hard bright, artificial smile over his face. “I used to think mother-in-law jokes were funny, once.” He bitterly sighed.

*** *** ***

“Stop staring at me that way . . .” Sara ordered absently, shuffling through a stack of typed notes and reorganizing them. Grissom gazed at the back of her head, wondering how she knew he’d been watching her. It was late evening and they were on opposite sides of the blue velvet room of the Wayside Inn, having agreed that it was easier to avoid temptation by being out of arm’s reach of each other. Currently Sara was cross-legged on the bed while Grissom was at the window side table, each of them trying to focus on the upcoming joint presentation on fingerprinting workshop, but neither was getting much done.

“How do you know I was even looking at you?” Grissom demanded gently, making it a point to be facing the checklist in his hands.

Sara laughed. “Because I can feel my SPINE tingling, Grissom. My aura is sort of hotwired to yours and the radar goes off when you’re looking at me with lust.”

That amused little comment floated around the room and settled between them. Sara glanced up at Grissom, who had set his file down and was indeed looking at her over the top of his glasses with a smoldering-eyed intensity. She felt a frisson of anticipation race through her at that stare. The faintest of smiles crossed his mouth and he stroked his beard thoughtfully.

“All work and no play . . .” he began in a husky tone. Sara tipped her head, stretched her long arms up and flexed her fingers. She carefully climbed off the bed and set the paperwork down on the nightstand; Grissom watched her, his eyes flaring a bright blue at the sultry deliberation of her actions.

“ . . . Makes Grissom a cranky man. And we can’t have THAT now, can we? Think I should take care of your . . . crank?” she purred, coming over to rest her hands on the arms of his chair and looking down into his face.

He tipped his head up, nostrils flaring, his mouth slightly open. “My crank is in your hands,” he replied, trying to keep a straight face, and almost managing. Sara’s flash of triumph startled him, and he moved to protest but she dropped a hot kiss on his mouth before he could speak, cutting off his words with a swirl of her tongue.

She pulled back a moment and laughed softly, still looming over him. “I am SO in the mood to make you beg . . .”

“Sara!” Grissom objected, his alpha instincts perturbed.

Sara laid a hand on his mouth, her eyes boring down on him as she shook her head. “You might be Lord of the Burgundy Bed, Grissom, but THIS is a different room altogether. No, this is MY domain, Sugarboy, so suck it up, or don’t let the door hit you on the way out . . .” she growled in a deliciously seductive tone. The fact that her free hand was naughtily stroking the building bulge between his thighs made a nice counterpoint to her words, and Grissom struggled with himself for a long moment. Sara waited, keeping her palm moving in slow strokes. Behind his glasses, he closed his eyes.

He nodded.

Sara’s eyes sparkled. She carefully tipped his face up to hers again and kissed Grissom once more, then spoke against his lips.

“Let’s play a very naughty game then, shall we, Stud? Something with a little . . . restraint?”

“I . . .” he began, then stopped himself.

She chucked him under the chin, her fingers cool against his beard.

“Shhhh . . . Let’s see . . .” thinking for a moment, Sara looked at herself, then at Grissom, a twisted little smile on her face. In one swift move she grasped her shirt and tugged it up, over her head, then set it on top of the papers on the table. She ran a hand down the cleavage of her bra in a teasing caress that held his attention.

“Yes, I think we can find something appropriate to the situation. On the bed, Grissom, like the sweetheart you’re going to be for me—"

Blushing, although he couldn’t figure out why, Grissom slowly rose from the chair and stepped over to the powder blue velour bed and sat on the edge of it. Sara shook her head and settled herself into his vacated chair, watching him.

“No, no, no, babe—You’re overdressed for the occasion. I need you much more . . . accessible.”

He looked at her, eyes big behind his lenses, and Sara fought the urge to laugh at his ‘deer in the headlights’ expression. She leaned forward and made a little encouraging sound.

“Come on, Grissom, there’s no one here but us, and I KNOW what you want to show me. Take your clothes off and . . . go slow.”

He hesitated; Sara sensed so much internal conflict within him at her whispered request. Gently she added, “Please—"

And that did it—with a push off the mattress, Grissom rose to his feet once more and began undoing the buttons of his shirt in a slow, thoughtful manner. He slid out of the shirt. dropped it with no further thought, and reached for his belt. Sara leaned back in the chair and raptly watched him, one knuckle up against her teeth as she did so, partially to cover her grin, and partially to stop from moaning a little.

It still thrilled her to see him undress. Even though Sara knew Grissom’s body; its broad lines and unabashedly masculine planes and curves, the cut of his hips, the heft of his heavy balls, his cock rising over them—seeing it revealed to her still sent a tingle through her chest that dropped straight between her thighs. He was stocky and strong and utterly male with no pretentiousness to his nudity.

And requesting him to do this for her made Sara all the more excited. He stepped out of his boxers and stood awkwardly, his eyes closed, high color on his cheeks above his beard. Sara surged out of the chair and came close to him, one hand snaking out in a caress around his cock as she looked up into his face.

“Now I’ve got you, my pretty," she gloated. His mouth curled in the tiniest of smiles but he wasn’t giving in that easily.

“That’s MY pretty. And it’s not a pretty, it’s a . . .”

“ . . . Handful. Double handful if we wanna be accurate,” Sara giggled up at Grissom without releasing him. He opened his eyes to glare at her but found it difficult to do when her fingers slid lovingly around his shaft, toying with it. Thick sexual tension crackled in the air and Sara shifted her weight from foot to foot, feeling antsy.

“Your crank, I presume. Well I have just the thing for it. Lie down, Grissom, and get comfortable—I’ll be right back.”

She slipped away through the interconnecting door to the other room, leaving Grissom standing naked and alone for a moment, feeling foolish and aroused. He stretched out on the bed, glad they’d turned the thermostat up in the room, and slightly fearful of the gleam in Sara’s eyes. Grissom turned his glare down onto himself and mentally chided his engorged, unrepentant dick.

“She’s well aware she can lead me around by you now—thanks a lot,” he grumbled. Before he could say more, Sara slipped back into the room, naked herself now, carrying a few things. His eyes narrowed but she smiled down at him, dimples deep.

“Time to tie one on, lover."

Swiftly, Sara looped the panty hose around the top of the bed knotting it in a belt of nylon circling the headboard. Grissom frowned.

“Sara—"

“Shhhhh—patience . . ."

Carefully she shifted onto the bed and straddled his hips. Grissom liked that and reached for her, but she shook her head and took his wrists, kissing them lightly. With deliberation she crossed them over his head on the pillow.

“No touchee," she warned him. Lazily Sara reached behind her slender back and unhooked her bra, letting it slither down her body to land in a warm little heap on his stomach. Grissom watched as she picked it up and leaned forward. Her soft chest pressed onto his face and he groaned even as she slid the bra around his wrists, tying it with quick, jerky motions.

He nuzzled, anxious and desperately aroused, fighting the urge to grab and take even as he felt the material tighten on his wrists. Then Sara sat up again, smiling triumphantly.

“Mine, Peaches. Now you’re allll mine.”

Grissom tipped his head and looked up—his hands were securely bound by the silk and lace bra, and looped through the panty hose around the headboard, effectively tethering him down.

He gritted his teeth, testing the bonds. Sara didn’t give him any time to worry though—she slithered down on his body and proceeded to nibble his right ear, breathing warmly into it as she writhed on top of his naked form.

“Mine, mine, mine. And I’m going to find out exactly how many strokes it takes to uncrank you, Grissom. Hope you’re in the mood for a nice, slow hand job, babe.”

 

It was murder.

He fought the bonds unconsciously, the muscles in his arms flexing along with his stomach as Sara carefully stroked more lotion onto his aching shaft. She sat cross-legged between his spread legs and gave a happy sigh, then gently slid her slick fingers in a deliberate stroke upward, twisting slightly. Grissom thrust up against them, following the pleasure her touch brought.

“Like that?”

“Sara!” he groaned, flexing his hands for the hundredth time. Her grip slid up and down, always a fraction slower than he wanted, always with the unerring ability to touch all the good places, the right spots.

Grissom knew he was going insane. She’d caressed his stomach and inner thighs, she’d dribbled lotion over his balls and stroked him, talking softly the entire time, cooing things he’d never dreamed she’d actually say; apparently Sara Sidle had a hidden vocabulary.

“Oh yeah, you know this IS a hell of a turn-on, Babe. I can see why you like this total control thing so much—I LOVE how hot you feel, how tense,” she told him, looking up the length of his body and flashing him a naughty grin. His throat was tight, and he rasped back.

“Damn it, Sara, you’re going to pay for this—"

“I know," slick fingers slid delicately around his testicles, caressing them and he gulped, tugging harder on his hands, fighting the knotted lace. Leaning forward, Sara rubbed one hand over his stomach in a soothing gesture, and lightly blew a warm breath over his standing cock. Grissom felt his hips rise in hard response.

“You once said all of me was yours, Grissom—I’m just returning the favor here. Think I should suck?”

His laser glare should have ignited her, but Sara merely laughed and flicked her tongue out, making him groan again. With a slow push, Sara slid her mouth onto him, and Grissom gave a low, strangled cry, utterly lost to the sensation, eyes closed tightly as his body began to rock.

Sara knew he couldn’t last much longer, and was pleased at how much she’d put him through already. Every moment Grissom submitted was a personal gift, and she cherished his trust he had in her. With a last loving swipe of her tongue she reluctantly pulled away from him and sat up to see his anguished face against the pillows, arms flexing madly.

“Christ, Sara!” he growled as his heavily veined cock throbbed visibly against his stomach. She reached to the nightstand and plucked the condom off of it, waggling it in his face.

“First—"

Gently she rolled it on him, and was concentrating so hard she wasn’t ready for the sudden hard ripping sound that echoed in the room. Sara yelped as Grissom’s still tied hands came down around her shoulders, caging her in. He rolled, taking her with him, pinning her under him, and in that stomach-lurching moment Sara realized exactly how big and strong Grissom was.

How she’d underestimated his patience.

He licked her cheek, teeth nipping lightly as he rubbed his heavy cock on her stomach.

It was a quick shift of power, and Sara was too dazed to protest, especially when Grissom hissed in a voice not to be argued with, his hot breath against her lips.

“Get your sweet long legs open wide, Sara. Right. Now.”

She whimpered with fearful excitement, and struggled to comply, feeling the hard knot of Grissom’s tied wrists under her back. Sara writhed, shifting, thighs parting.

“You . . . I—our hands are sort of—trapped—“

He snarled, and arched his hips. A demanding push, a soft slide, and Sara felt a howl rise out of her as Grissom’s searing cock sank deep and hard into the velvet box of her body. He thrust deeper, his mouth sliding wetly across her cheek and neck; voice low, harsh, hungry.

“TAKE me, Sara! Drive me to the edge and THIS is what happens—“ he panted, his body settling into a hard pounding rhythm into hers. Sara turned her face, eyes glittering as she kissed him, hard. Her long legs slithered around his hips, ankles crossing as she gasped back,

“DO it then, Grissom! Fuck me as hard as you can, I can take every last inch of you—“

Through her words, Sara already felt the clench of her stomach, tightening with every stroke of Grissom into her. Her head lolled back, hair spilling everywhere as the hot wave of tingling pleasure washed through her in beautiful pulses of black, breath-robbing joy. Lost in her bliss, she felt Grissom’s spine arch moments later, heard his muffled roar of bearish pleasure against the pillow by the side of her head as he tensed deeply within her.

Exhausted, he dropped onto her, and wearily rolled to his side, pulling her along with him, and they lay sated and dead to the world for long, long moments. Sara wasn’t sure if she slept, or how much time had passed when she opened her eyes again.

Grissom was looking at her, his eyes dark and sparkling, his face slightly haggard under his sweaty curls. He smelled of hot sex and regret.

“So now you know the truth,” he whispered sadly.

Confused, Sara tried to brush the damp hair out of her face and look at him. She felt sticky and sweaty and wonderful. A little achy, but in a very good way.

“The truth?”

“I’m . . . not good at giving in, Sara. I never will be. I’ll always be a beast, I’ll always look for a way to get . . . back on top.” He confessed. She was about to say something when they both heard the cell phone go off, over on the table. Sara looked down at the two of them, trapped and tied on the blue velour bed—

And burst out laughing.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

 

“Yeah, Estelle confessed, once we showed her the evidence from the baton and the brick pillar,” Joe murmured in genuine satisfaction. “Alibi went right down the toilet after that. She had poor Nell so frightened the kid was on the verge of leaving town thinking nobody’d believe she wasn’t actually in on the murder, just a witness to it.”

“Ah, but the evidence told the truth, and the truth was enough to find the killer,” Grissom pointed out thoughtfully. Joe nodded.

He looked at Grissom with a measure of respect, and then shot a glance at Daisy who was sipping her coffee. The three of them were in the coroner’s office, sitting around her desk, companionably eating doughnuts and looking over the agenda of the last workshop.

“So—delighted with that reward Molly gave you?”  
Daisy asked with a grin.

Grissom didn’t roll his eyes but it was evident that he wanted to. Carefully he pursed his mouth. “A lifetime pass to a male strip club—yes, well I think the best thing would be to accidentally leave it somewhere behind on the way out of town.”

Neither Joe nor Daisy commented, but they shared an amused grin between them.

After a thoughtful pause, she spoke up again.  
"I thought Sara was coming with you," Daisy commented after swallowing a mouthful of cruller.

Grissom smiled nonchalantly, waving his cup of coffee. “We got tied up in something last night so I thought I’d let her sleep in. This week’s been a little rough on our schedules.”

“I bet—dunno how you guys handle nightshift work myself, much less in a town like Vegas,” Joe sighed, leaning back in his seat. “At least Sheba’s sort of normal, most of the time.”

“Normal?” Daisy countered with an arch look at Joe. “With CockaDoodle at one end of town and Bosky Dell’s at the other end? Ha!”

“Bosky Dell’s?” Grissom asked curiously.

Joe shrugged and sipped his coffee. “Retirement home for old showgirls—got an aunt there myself, and Daisy’s mom—"

“Shhhhh! I’m not talking about my MOTHER and spoiling my breakfast," Daisy grumbled, staring at her half-eaten cruller in embarrassment.   
“Sometimes small towns can be sheer hell, Grissom.”

“Maybe that’s why I prefer the city myself,” he murmured sympathetically.

The conversation turned to the last workshop, and Daisy excused herself, walking out at Harper’s beckoning, and leaving the two men behind her. Joe watched her leave with a twitch of a smile.

“She still hasn’t gotten over that re-enactment you know. That really threw her for a loop. You guys do that a lot in your line?”

“Yes,” Grissom replied, simply.

Joe nodded, sipping his coffee. “I daresay it made her see me in a whole new light," he ventured softly.

Grissom shot him a faint smirk and they shared a quiet moment of male camaraderie interrupted only by the soft beep of a cell phone. Grissom fished it out of his pocket, hearing a slightly irritated voice.

“I’ve got a few people with something to say to you," came Catherine’s growl. After that a loud roar of voices all chorused, “WE HATE YOU!” in annoyed tones.

Across the desk, Joe grinned. Grissom sighed, waiting for the grumbling to die down again. When he heard Catherine’s snicker, he spoke up.  
“How many made it to the seminar?”

“Everyone but David, Clem, you, Sara, and two temps in the secretarial pool.” She murmured with satisfaction.

Grissom sighed.“You did a good job. And for the record, I’m sorry—it’s not as if sexual harassment has ever been an issue for the night shift.”

Catherine made a little sound of agreement, and spoke up softly this time, her words far friendlier.  
“I know—and so do most of us here. So how’s your lecturing going?”

“Well. Sara and I should be done and on the road home by this afternoon.”

“Good. You’ll have a day to try and get back on a nocturnal clock before getting back on the job then. Oh, and your trip to Indiana’s been confirmed.”

“April—the Bug Bowl,” Grissom sighed happily.

Catherine made a slightly disgusted sound.  
“Only YOU, Grissom, could find cockroach racing a source of yearly delight.”

“You’re always welcome to tag along—very educational," he replied, only to receive an emphatic reply in the negative.

“God NO! Take Sara, show HER your wild and woolly caterpillar so to speak, but kindly leave me OUT of it. I have to go—the presenter’s here."

Grissom stifled a chuckle and heard the soft disconnection. He closed the phone to see Joe watching him, a smirk on his face.

“Your second in command?”

“Yes. She’s holding down the fort well.”

“Too well?” Joe asked curiously.

Grissom shook his head mildly. “She wants a supervisor position, but not my shift, so I’m not worried. If she ever cracks my shorthand, then I might have a problem.”

*** *** ***

“And this, Jake, is an arch . . . very distinctive you know. Only five percent of the population have arches as the main feature of their fingerprints,” Sara told the boy. The lanky ten year old looked at his smudged thumb in astonishment bringing it so close to his face he nearly transferred the ink to it. Sara handed him a baby wipe and smiled.

“Hey, only a veterinarian does nose prints, okay? And those are only for dogs.” She teased. He looked down at the patient Golden Retriever waiting at his side and grinned.

“Warner’s got a pretty big nose, but it’s always wet,” he confided. Sara nodded, reaching out a hand to pet the instantly grateful dog. He looked up at her with blissful devotion, tail thumping.

Jake laughed.“If you scratch him behind the ears, he kind of sighs and rolls over,"

Sara grinned; over her shoulder, Grissom shot her a knowing look and added under his breath, “What a coincidence--I do too.”

At that Sara broke into a quick giggle, especially when Grissom reached over to pet Warner, hitting a good spot apparently, because the dog sighed and rubbed his head into Grissom’s palm, eyes closing in bliss.

“You’re a cat person now," she reminded him.

Grissom shrugged.“What Figaro doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

“Sure, this is how it starts—petting a dog here and there. You tell yourself you can stop anytime, but sooner or later you’re cruising the parks and pet stores, looking for your puppy love fix," Sara warned him in a husky tone.

For a moment, Grissom actually looked concerned. Sara waited as his mouth twitched and he reluctantly stopped petting Warner, who gave a doggy sigh.

“There’s enough of me for dogs AND cats," he announced. That was enough to make Sara laugh, and she turned to begin printing the next child. The line was much shorter now, only about four left, and the auditorium was almost empty once more. 

Grissom checked his watch. Sara caught him at it and smiled. “Anxious to get on the road?”

“To get home. Fun as it’s been to play between the burgundy and the blue, I miss our own bed,” he admitted simply. Sara nodded, understanding that hint of homesickness with a pang. Having a home instead of an apartment was still new, and this precious, possessive feeling delighted her deep down. She tossed her hair out of her eyes and tried to focus on the little girl in front of her with smile.

“Want to get your fingers dirty?” she asked her cheerily. The little girl shot her a dubious look, then turned her gaze up at her mother, who smiled.

“It’s okay this time, Ginnie.”

The kindergartner still seemed reluctant, so Grissom shifted, and dropped to a squat next to her, holding out his smallest finger.

“My pinkie is the same size as your thumb,” he observed.

Ginnie checked his claim and shook her head vigorously.“Nuh uh. My thumb is littler.”

Grissom nodded back, just as emphatically, “Is not. They’re the exact same size.”

“Nope,” Ginnie persisted. Grissom sighed, pressing his pinkie to her thumb, closing one eye as he squinted. Ginnie was grinning, showing off her missing front teeth shyly.

“Fine. Let’s prove it. You print YOUR thumb and I’ll print MY pinkie and we’ll measure them. And then you’ll see.”

Ginnie eagerly held out her hand to Sara, letting her ink it up and slowly roll each finger out on the card. Impatiently she let her mother wipe her fingers as she watched Grissom reluctantly hold his hand out to Sara.

“Be gentle with me," he muttered in a soft voice.

Sara fought her grin as she inked his pinkie with the roller.“Isn’t that MY line?”

*** *** ***

Three days later, Sara was humming. The evidence was neatly laid out on the table, all the parts of the broken cuckoo clock organized under her fingertips. She carefully scanned the hands for blood, the Luminol spray beginning to fade a little, but not before a large bright patch glowed on one corner of the clock housing.

It was the day before Valentine’s Day. Sara knew Grissom had gotten them a booking at the Grill, and that he’d retrieved his blue suit from the cleaners, so things were definitely looking up. Tomorrow they’d go out, eat, and clock in to work on time with no one the wiser, hopefully. Still, a nice dinner out would be a sweet way to start the shift, and Sara knew just the outfit to wear, a little two-piece sweater set with an A-line skirt and short matching jacket. Classy but comfortable, and the mossy green of it always looked good on her.

She laughed at herself, amused to realize she’d been thinking about something so utterly . . . girly. 

Clothes, for crying out loud. Normally clothes were such a non-issue—but this was a special occasion, and if Grissom was going to the trouble to dress up, so could she. Knowing him, it wasn’t the outer layers that would interest him anyway—not after Grissom’s not so subtle observation over breakfast that they had yet to test out their rocking chair.

Sara looked up to see Warrick and Grissom pass by, deep in conversation, and for a moment, a sweet little chill hit her spine as she watched him walking down the hall, her gaze lingering on Grissom’s back as they headed out.

First Valentine’s with Grissom--

She could hardly wait.

*** *** ***

The body was almost completely hidden in the milkweed. Grissom wandered over and brushed back part of the stalks, peering down at the crumpled figure among the blossoms. In the diffused light of sunset it looked ominously dark, and he leaned back a moment, waiting for Warrick to check the film in the camera.

“Looks like a stabbing. I see a blood trail starting from over by the asphalt parking lot. It gets heavier right about here," Warrick commented. Grissom glanced at the indicated area and nodded.

“He slowed down as the extent of his injuries affected him, then toppled over. Given that the scene is fairly undisturbed, chances are good that whoever did this to him didn’t care if the body was found,” he commented a little sadly. Warrick nodded in grim agreement.

With care, Grissom rose up just as Warrick squatted down, and began slowly circling the body, eyes on the ground. “No footprints, no indication of a chase—"

The flash and whine of the camera punctuated his words; he turned to see little dark shapes rise from the milkweed blossoms closest to him. Warrick continued to snap pictures, the flash going off in a quick strobe that caught the rise of the insects. Grissom took a step forward.

“Warrick," He looked up, patiently as Grissom waved a latex-covered hand over the weeds. “You’re disturbing the insects.”

“Sorry man, but we’re losing light as it is, and if we want proper documentation—"

Grissom nodded reluctantly and began to squat down again when something landed on his left knee with a faint scratching sound. He looked down as a second one landed, a few inches from the first one, and the orange wings harshly gaudy in the strobe of the flash.

“Warr--!” he began, moving to brush the annoyed insects off of his slacks but it was too late. The first one swiftly snapped her abdomen forward, stinger lancing Grissom’s lower thigh.

He tried to suck in a breath, but the sudden, explosive pain hit him like an eighteen-wheeler to the chest, a fireball that shredded every nerve ending in his body along some cosmic cheese grater. Grissom rocked and fell forward, his face knocking against the legs of the corpse as he hit the milkweeds, his hands scrabbling madly along his thigh as he curled up. A second lance of fiery agony pierced, and Grissom went grey just as Warrick dropped the camera and lunged for him.

“Shit! Grissom! Ah Damn it!!” Moving swiftly, Warrick rolled Grissom over, studying his face, reaching for his shoulders to lift him up.

“Grissom!” Warrick yelled, searching his face frantically for some response. Grissom tried to say something, but the wracking torture searing through his thigh left him wordless, his mouth open in a hard rictus. Warrick fumbled for his cell phone, jabbing three numbers recklessly as he pulled Grissom’s torso away from the corpse and completed his call at the same time.

“Yes it’s an emergency Goddamn it! I’ve got a possible heart attack happening here!” Warrick shouted into the phone.

Grissom tried to shake his head, but every beat of his pulse sent a wave of electric torture through him, and even breathing seemed to rip the skin out of his lungs. Warrick was hollering directions into the cell phone, and Grissom struggled to look down, to see if the two infuriated tarantula hawks were still clinging to his pants. Slowly his vision greyed out, but not before he watched one of them sting him again . . .

*** *** ***

Warrick looked up at the crowd moving down the hall in his direction and quickly threw his hands up in a supplicating gesture at the sheer ferocity blazing in Sara’s gaze. Reaching him, she wavered a moment, then bit her lips hard as he wrapped his hands around her shoulders gently in acknowledgement.

“It’s NOT a heart attack, and he’s not going to die,” Warrick announced over her shoulder to Catherine and Greg, who both shifted and looked relieved. 

Sara pulled away from him and looked up, regaining her composure as her husky voice demanded,  
“So what IS it, Warrick? All we got was a page from dispatch about a four-twenty-two, and that it was Grissom! Jennie told us what’d you’d said—"

“I fucked up,” Warrick admitted miserably. He lifted his chin and added, “We found a body in some vegetation, and I was taking shots, but the flashes pissed off a couple of wasps in the milkweed. Grissom got stung in the leg about three times.”

“Wasps?” Greg asked suspiciously, cocking his head, “That’s not so bad.”

“They are when they’re tarantula hawks,” Warrick replied.

Sara shook her head, wincing hard, and Catherine looked grave for a moment. “Three times? Jeez! Well he won’t be walking easily for a while. Have you seen the doctor yet?”

“Not yet. The EMTs dosed him with some antihistamines on the way over, but that’s all I know.”

“What’s a tarantula hawk?” Greg asked softly.

Sara bit her lip and sighed.“That’s the wasp that paralyzes a tarantula and lays its eggs in the spider’s belly so the larvae have a fresh food source when they hatch,” Sara muttered, flashing back to a warm night with Grissom, hunching together over a beautifully illustrated field guide. She remembered something more and added, “Their sting ranks as one of the most painful of any insect. Scale of one to four, they’re a four.”

“Owww---gnaw your own leg off time,“ Greg sympathized. Warrick closed his eyes, but Catherine shook her head and tapped his arm.

“Insects are an in the line of duty hazard; Grissom would be the FIRST to tell you that.”

“He still will be,” came a cheerful voice. They looked up to see a slightly familiar face as a woman in a pink lab coat held out her hand.

“As I told Mr. Grissom, we have to stop meeting like this. I’m Doctor Hildy Meyers. I took care of Mr. Grissom back on Halloween?” She still had the hair barrettes and sneakers; Catherine sighed, shaking the proffered hand.

“Doctor Meyers, how is he?”

“—Can I see him?” Sara broke in softly. The doctor looked at both women, then the men crowding behind them and raised her eyebrows.

“I take it you’re all—family?”

“Flesh and blood,” Warrick managed without a hint of a grin. Doctor Meyers nodded and caught the eye of each of them for a second, then smiled.

“For a moment then, sure. Except for some edema and pain. I suspect he’s a little sensitive to the antihistamine but other than that Mr. Grissom is going to be fine.” She reassured them. Sara still looked skeptical, and Doctor Meyers motioned to the hallway behind her. “Third door down. I’m holding him for a few hours observation.”

Sara moved before anyone else and was down the hall in several strides, yanking open the door. Cautiously the other four looked at each other.  
“We’d better give them a moment, because it’s probably not going to be pretty,” Catherine sighed.  
Looking in, Sara took a deep breath and let some of her tension relax as she met Grissom’s slightly groggy gaze. He lay back on a gurney bed, his face pale, but his smile a familiar twist of self-deprecation.

“Sara . . .”

“Grissom," she stepped over to the bed and looked down at him, one hand sliding to take his outstretched one; the minute she felt his warm dry grip she relaxed a little bit more.

“Did anyone finish processing the body?” he asked. Astonished, Sara stared at him; Grissom blinked slowly.

“I don’t know. I don’t care, frankly. He’s dead, and you’re not. That’s what’s important to ME right now,” Sara managed with only the slightest tremor in her voice.

Grissom shook his head with effort. “Warrick didn’t see the wasps. It was an accident. They happen. But we need someone to finish working the scene.”

“Grissom!” she began with a sinking feeling. Of course he’d be thinking of the case first. She tightened her grip on his fingers, and feeling her do that made him look up at her.

“You’re angry,” he observed with a slightly fearful look. Sara let her head drop and didn’t speak up right away, although her fingers lightened and she stroked his knuckles with her thumb.

“I’m dealing with a lot of feelings right now,” she intoned softly but forcefully. “Of course I’m mad. And scared. And frustrated. You have to let me FEEL those things, Gil, because this is the second time in four months you’ve ended up at the hospital without any warning. I’m not good at these kinds of surprises, even though they happen.”

Grissom thought about that, muzzily for a moment, then nodded. He tipped his face up and managed a weak smile.

“On the other hand, this isn’t nearly as bad as a car accident, so . . .“ he fumbled with his free hand under the neckline of his hospital gown, “ . . . Albert must be on the job.”

The metal gleamed against the mint color, and Sara flashed a short smile at him as a chord of something deep and sweetly painful rattled in her chest. She tossed her hair out of her eyes and cocked her head.  
“Yeah, well he’s not getting a superior performance rating from me this year."

She meant to say more, much more, but at that point the door behind her opened cautiously, and Catherine peeked around the corner. Sara waved them in; they slowly approached Grissom in a cluster, studying him carefully.

“You okay?” Greg demanded. Grissom gave a shrug.

“I don’t have my arms and legs in the air and larvae imbedded in my stomach, so that’s usually a good sign,” he responded dryly. Before anyone could say anything further, he tugged the drape away from his left leg and added, “Although I will be needing crutches for a day or two."

Heavy layers of bandages encased his lower thigh and knee; Sara felt curiously moved at the sight of his pale bare shin and foot, so familiar to her in secret contexts beyond the hospital.

Warrick looked grim.“Grissom," he began, his face drawn in long lines of regret, but the other man shook his head.

“Warrick. Excrement occurs. What I need you to do now is make sure that scene gets processed before anymore time passes. Use a flashlight instead of a strobe for any further pictures. And . . . thank you.”

“For getting you stung?” he replied, not quite ready to let go of his self-recrimination. Grissom managed a gentle smile and a mild tone.

“For being there. And for being willing to pick up the slack for the next few days while I heal up.”

Warrick nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

*** *** ***

He held up fine through the car ride home, and seemed all right all the way into the house, but once there, Grissom stumbled with his crutches to the sofa and collapsed on it, breathing heavily. Sara moved to him, studying his face, waiting for him to speak.

“Dizzy," he confessed in a low voice. Sara brushed a hand over his forehead, feeling the cool sweat there, and when he looked up at her, his eyes were wide and dark. She pressed a kiss to his forehead, but he reached for her, big hands cupping the sides of her face. His kiss was frantic, hot and deep. Tasting it, Sara gave in to the answering need coursing through her, indulging in a little selfish reassurance that he was here; alive. She pulled away and sighed. Grissom drew in a deep breath.

“God I want you! I know it’s a delayed stress reaction, and probably a very bad idea but I do, Sara—“ he rumbled, taking one of her hands and pulling it to his waist. She shook her head. Gently freeing her wrist, she stood up again and propped his crutches out of the way.

“Grissom, you’re not in any shape to be getting ideas like that, okay? Right now you need rest and fluids and some time off your feet. Are you hungry? I can get you some soup if you want.”

He looked at her for a long minute and Sara was torn between wanting to laugh at his sulk, and give in to his hunger; clearly a thwarted Grissom was not a happy camper. Reluctantly he rubbed his hand over his face.

“I’m not hungry for soup.”

“Okay—toast? Chili? Scrambled eggs?”

“No . . . thank you,” he remembered to add after a second. Sara gave a shrug and went to the kitchen, returning with a glass of orange juice. Grissom eyed it until she thrust it into his hands.

“Drink. And then you’re going to bed, babe.”

“Bed?” he repeated, hopefully. Sara DID laugh, a little wearily, shaking her head.

“Alone. You need REST, Grissom.”

At that he drained the glass, set it down with a bit more force than necessary, and reached for the crutches, his mouth in a hard line. When Sara tried to help him, he quietly shrugged her off and thumped towards the bedroom.

For a long moment she watched his back, and fought a surge of anger and hurt rising up within her. So he didn’t like being told no. Shocker. But Sara knew that after a good day’s rest he’d be in a better mood, and as she went to the car to retrieve the prescriptions, she braced herself against the chill.

*** *** ***

Grissom threw the book across the room, feeling a dull satisfaction in hearing it hit the wall. It was childish, but for the moment he didn’t care. Restlessly he looked around the living room, wondering why he couldn’t concentrate. Normally he didn’t mind a sick day or two here and there, taking some time to catch up on reading and personal paperwork, but at the moment nothing seemed interesting.

Figaro trotted in and paused, looking up at Grissom with a wary eye before cautiously jumping up onto the sofa beside him. Grissom lightly petted the cat.

“I have roses to reroute and a reservation I have to cancel, Figaro,” he sighed. “And all I really wanted was to do this thing right. The last time I got this excited about Valentine’s Day was in the second grade when Joan Rothman’s mom made chocolate cupcakes.”

Figaro blinked up at Grissom, enjoying the soft stroking. Grissom frowned.

“Further, I’ve probably completely ruined any chance of being very close and personal with the only person I adore. It scares me, cat. To want someone so much, to need her smile, her touch as part of my waking and sleeping moments. I didn’t used to. I had—autonomy, once. A very bland, cautious, solitary life enlivened only by the casework of my profession. I was an observer of the human condition, not a participant.”

Figaro stretched out his chin, purring loudly, and Grissom shifted his fingers to lightly scratch under it, smiling a little at the cat’s obvious pleasure.

“See? Even this is a part of the change she’s made in me. I would never have considered a pet, before Sara. Ants would have been enough. She makes me live, Figaro. She keeps me connected to the real world—even when I’m not sure I want it.”

Uninterested in anything but the scratching, Figaro turned up the purr and nestled against Grissom, who slowly reached for his cell phone.

Sara parked the car and sat for a moment in the dark driver’s seat, letting herself relax. Work had been hectic, and it was clear that Catherine enjoyed running the nightshift, even if it was only because of Grissom’s medical leave. Nothing major was in the works, but there were a lot of little cases that took as much time and concentration as anything else. Sara had been glad to get back to work, but now, the thought of walking into the house had her feeling a little irritated.

Grissom had taken his medications and let her change his dressings, he’d reluctantly eaten and gone to bed, but not without grumbling. Part of it was his condition, she knew that, but another part of it was the ongoing battle of wills just under the surface of their relationship, and for Sara, it was getting old. She yanked her keys out of the ignition, and climbed out of the car, wishing Grissom would just accept that he was NOT going to get his way every time.

Loved him to death she did, but if he didn’t get it through his damn head that this was a partnership, Sara felt she might give in to her occasional urge to just leave. Casting a look back at the car, she took a deep breath and opened the front door.

Roses drowned her senses. Three big vases of them sat in the living room, pink, red and white, in blooming perfection, the scent of them redolent and heavy in the pre-dawn stillness. She paused, looking from vase to vase, startled by the sheer opulent lushness of so many flowers, the overwhelming richness of them. Sara took a step closer to the nearest vase, and an odd tickle started in her stomach.

“I love you.”

Soft, strong words. Started, Sara jerked her glance up to see Grissom leaning against the doorway of the kitchen. He was an oddly endearing sight, dressed in a clean white shirt, black coat and tie, and black sweatpants. As she looked at him she managed a smile; he looked down at himself and winced a little.

“The slacks wouldn’t go on over the bandages. I—improvised.”

“It almost matches, but you know we can’t go to the Grill, Grissom. It would take you twenty minutes alone to get up the steps,” she observed quietly. To her surprise instead of arguing, he nodded, and limped into the living room, closing in on her. She tried to hold back, but when his hands slid up her arms Sara softened a little and looked up into his face.

“They’re sending dinner over in about an hour. I took the liberty of ordering for us—Pasta Primavera, steamed carrots and rice for you, and Calamari for me.”

It sounded good, and Sara flashed him a weak smile. Seeing it, Grissom sighed a little.

“I still want you. I will ALWAYS want you Sara, while there’s even an ounce of testosterone in my body. That’s just the way it is, acushla, and will be until we’re both fading away in wheelchairs sunning ourselves on the porch of some assisted living home for retired criminalists.”

She burst out laughing at the image. “Grissom, you definitely put a new spin on courtship, you know that? For the record I want you too, but I’m tired of playing to your whims here. When you’re sick, you’re sick. Don’t EVER brush it aside like it doesn’t matter, all right?” her voice quavered, and she realized she was on the brink of tears she’d been holding in since the stomach-lurching page message of yesterday.

Grissom searched her face, then gently stroked her temple with his finger, nodding meekly at her ferocity. His simple acquiescence broke her, and Sara felt herself begin to cry.

He held her, stroking her back soothingly and let her sob away against him, feeling amazingly good while doing it. This was the Sara no one else knew, the vulnerable one, the scared one—the Sara that was his and his alone. Tightening his hug, he buried his nose in her warm hair and felt her clutch him tighter in response.

“Jesus I love you,” he hoarsely whispered, letting himself savor the feel of her in his arms, solid and real. Her grip around him tightened in return, and he heard her sniffly sigh.

“I keep forgetting I could lose you. Hell, someday I WILL, Grissom, and it’s too much for me to try and wrap my mind around okay? I mean here we are. Life is good, happy, and BAM, I get a call that scares the SHIT out of me and the whole time I’m thinking all of this was too good to last, that I didn’t tell you I loved you enough, did I even kiss you this morning . . .” she cried, clutching him. Her tears were very hot against his neck, and Grissom enjoyed the burn of them on his skin. Carefully he guided the two of them down to the sofa, pulling Sara between his thighs, holding her close. Slowly her tears faded to little sniffles punctuating the silence. Grissom kissed her forehead.

“The cost of loving is losing, Sara. All things are transient within their own timelines, and the secret of a life well-lived is to savor the good in the here and now.”

She shifted in his arms, being careful not to bump his still swollen leg and made an impatient sound as she wiped her eyes.

“Grissom . . . How do you know when the cost is too high? How do you know if what’s good is good enough or if it could be better? And before you say a word, keep in mind that you and I were caught up in a pretty awkward dance for a few years there, not going forward or backward, just trapped in the gravitational field of mutual attraction.”

He considered that and laughed, a hint of bitterness.  
“Before I met you, I did a lot of losing. The balance of love wasn’t in my favor, Sara. I was terrified of being burned again, and yet-- I couldn’t fight what you brought out of me—all those desires, those dreams. And we’d probably still be circling around if an earthquake hadn’t shoved me on top of you.”

That made a laugh bubble out of her. “God, that’s what it takes to move Gil Grissom—an earthquake!”

“I was afraid you’d die Sara. And in that instant when the beam started to fall I KNEW I couldn’t pay the price for a love never spoken. I’d do it again, in a heartbeat. It was the right move, the tipping of the scale for me.” He swallowed hard, adding, “Damn it, I will NOT go back to a life without you!”

Sara sniffled a moment, then kissed him, hard.

*** *** ***

“Come here.”

“Grissom—your leg—"

“--Is fine as long as I don’t overstrain it,” he muttered silkily. “And THIS is not going to be a problem. Let me help you--”

Big cool hands slid under her shirt, slowly unhooking and undressing her. In the semi-darkness, Sara gave in and let Grissom take her clothes off, feeling a tremble deep within her stomach that was only partially lust. Her skin tingled where he touched her. When she stood there completely undressed, he let his gaze sweep over her adoringly, drinking in her long, elegant frame, her hungry dark eyes.

“In naked beauty most adorned—“ he quoted, looking a little dazed. Sara reached out and began to undo the string on his sweatpants, her fingers clever and quick; within a minute or two he was undressed as well. She slid her arms around his waist, pressing to him and taking pleasure in the lovely differences of their bodies. More than the obvious one of sexuality, Sara enjoyed playing with the texture, taste and scent of Grissom, the warm and arousing aura of his body.

He stroked her spine as he kissed her temple, working his way down the side of her face until Grissom was pressing hot lips to her jaw line, and the sweet little spot just under her ear, the one that made her knees go weak. Carefully, tenderly he licked it, then blew on her skin; the chill sent a shiver through her body, making her nipples achingly stiff.

Sara slipped out of his embrace impatiently, and with direct little pushes made him sit in the rocker. Grissom managed, settling into the cushion with only a wince or two—the swelling of his leg had gone down considerably, and only three red bruises remained along the muscle of his lower thigh. Bending over, she touched them and he watched her.

“Sill hurts?”

“It aches, but only a little bit,” he assured her as his hands slid over her shoulders, caressing the satiny flesh over them. Sara had secrets, and one of them was amazing skin, flawlessly smooth and warm, like living silk. Grissom never tired of touching it, stroking and feeling it under his fingertips or tongue.

She shifted her caress, smoothly encircling his rising cock with her fingers, squeezing in gentle pulses as he closed his eyes, smiling.

“I think I’ve found where the swelling has gone,” Sara teased, her hair brushing his thighs. Grissom made a soft, happy sound, and then her mouth slid warmly onto him and he tensed.

“Sara . . .”

She knelt between his legs, wrapped her hands around the armrests of the chair, and rocked it. The slow slide and push of the chair, of his body, his cock into and out of her mouth waxed and waned. Sara tightened her wet lips, teasing him with pressure and plunge, and Grissom fought the groan deep in his throat. The rhythm coursed through him for a long, long time, sending spikes of hot pleasure through his cock and up his spine.

He wrapped gentle hands in her hair, tangling his fingers in the softness, gripping it as she sucked him with noisy pleasure, little moans of delight muffled by his thick cock until finally he began to rock faster. Sara let go of the armrests and pulled away; Grissom groaned, tugging on her hair, urging her down, but she merely laughed.

“Nope—my turn. Quid pro quo, Grissom."

She rose from between his thighs and climbed up. Gracefully bracing a knee on each armrest, Sara loomed over him, reaching behind his head to grip the back of the chair tightly.

He understood. Grissom leaned forward and slid his arms up and under her thighs, cupping her round ass and pulling her to his face. Sara shuddered a little as his tongue slid deeply along the soft seam of her sex, opening the soft inner petals with lingering licks. His beard tickled along the inside of her thighs, and she wriggled a little under the tender suckling.

“Ohhhhh . . . “ came her trembling gasp as Grissom slowly began to rock the chair. The shifting sensation of his fluttering tongue along her pink valley moving from soft to firm to soft again was unbearably wonderful, and Sara’s hands tightened on the top rim of the rocking chair as she fought to hold off her orgasm. She squirmed, but finally, Grissom let his tongue circle her throbbing little bud and she was lost.

With a slow cry of delight, Sara rocked her hips forward into his mouth, feeling Grissom’s hands tighten on her ass while her orgasm bloomed in hard curling waves of heat through her. She shuddered, the peaks dying down with each slow shift of the chair, and finally, her fingers began to unlock from the bars. Grissom licked her thigh then her stomach and breasts as he helped her down into his lap, stroking away her shakes, and letting his cock press between their bellies. She clung to him and he soothed her.

“Gil. Love you . . .” Sara whispered, dry mouthed and overwhelmed. He kissed her ear, her cheek, her lips and nose.

“I felt it, yes,” he teased softly. Sara laughed, and reached down to touch him, feeling the eager heat, the wet leaking of his cock between them.

“Going to make you come in me,” she told him, shifting around until her back was against his damp chest. Gently, Sara lowered herself on the thick spike of his cock, and as she sank down the groan Grissom made seemed so deep that it could have come straight from his balls. Sara gasped, and parked her bare feet on the edges of the rocking chair’s seat, giving her leverage to gently pump herself in long sweet strokes and Grissom gripped her hips.

They rocked. Sara felt so many things all at once: Grissom’s hot breath on her shoulder, his thick cock deep inside her, the flutter of her slick walls clenching him in squeezes that made him curse and moan, the desperate grip of his hands on her sweat-slicked hips. Within moments the rocking increased, and Grissom’s hot growl against her shoulder roared out.

“OhhGodSaraSarasweetgoingtocome!OhGoddd!”  
Hard thrusts, slick with sweat and lust drove him up into her, and Sara gripped the chair’s arms, dimly aware of a second sweet wave of pleasure, slower and softer rippling through her as Grissom helplessly nipped her shoulder.

She slumped back against him, sated and content. His arms came around her, holding her protectively and gradually the rocking chair came to a slow, slow stop. Sara didn’t want to move. She knew she should, but the sweet deep satisfaction that filled her body was too wonderful to disturb.  
“Sara?” came his deep, lazy whisper.  
“Mmmm?” she managed in a low, utterly contented voice.

“If we’re this good on a rocking chair, can you imagine what a porch swing would be like?” he asked, licking the sweat off her shoulder. Sara laughed.

*** *** ***

“Mail’s here.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Water bill, gas bill, Save the Gorilla Habitat flyer . . . and a letter for the cat.”

“What was that last one, babe?”

“It’s a letter addressed to F. H. Grissom, Sara.”

“It’s got to be a typo—the G is right next to the F on a keyboard you know. It’s probably for you.”

“Maybe. Should I open it?”

“Who’s it from?”

“The security office of the Tangiers. . . . What the hell?”

“Grissom?”

“Dear Sir, this is to inform you that your lease on box 1530 will expire as of the 15th of this month. Should you wish to renew it, two forms of picture ID are required . . . Sara, I don’t think this is a joke.”

“It’s got to be—what makes you think otherwise.”

“Because my father’s middle name was Forbes. Howard Forbes Grissom.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved this chapter and the chance to tell family stories about young Grissom and Sara. I also liked using Charles Dickens characters, and of course, using imagery from the Gobbler Motel in Johnson Creek Wisconsin. Google it: you'll love the photos.


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